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xp_logs2015-09-22 01:02 pm
x-hawkeye.livejournal.com) wrote in xp_logs2015-09-22 01:02 pm
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Jennie & Clint | Tuesday Afternoon
Clint stops by Jennie's studio to discuss what he's discovered - rather, the lack of any concrete discoveries. They manage to find some common ground.
After getting nothing concrete back from his contact about Miss Stavros, just a rumor here or there and an interesting potential intersection with one of those rumors and a mission he'd been a part of in Europe, he'd decided to forego any further surreptitious poking. Sometimes, just asking someone was the best way to get an answer - because if they didn't answer, that was sort of an answer in and of itself, wasn't it?
Clint had come through the salon first, gotten turned around, and then been directed to the outside entrance to the upstairs studio. Old buildings were very scenic and whatnot, but their architecture was often confusing. Of course, once he knew what he was looking for, he was pretty sure Steve would have a heart attack at him not having paid enough attention to the building to see it as he approached.
Shrugging to himself, Clint pushed open the door at the top of the stairs and took in the brightness of the light streaming through the windows. Even colorblind, he could see that it made the wooden floors glow. It was like the light just bounced around, floor to ceiling to windows to floor again. Leaning back against the wall near the door, he let his eyes move over the grain of the wood, following patterns that no one else would be able to see as he waited for Jennie to notice he was there - or, if she'd already noticed, to free herself up to speak to him.
Jennie leaned forward, her body graceful as she moved into position, stretching out her muscles. She was dressed in a leotard and tights, hair up in a bun, looking every bit the professional ballerina. But her form was no longer lithe and willowy. Her muscles now spoke of strength, speed, and power. "Good afternoon Mr. Barton," she said, not looking up nor wavering in her movements, limbs flowing from one form to the next. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"
"February 2012," Clint said, tipping his head back a bit so he could watch her movements.
"Moscow," Jennie didn't even pause. "That was a grand old time. Have you gone poking about in my background?" this time she looked up, and her blue eyes were full of something... mischief maybe. Or glee that the bait had finally been taken. "Tsk tsk, naughty boy. You haven't even bought me a drink first."
Quirking a smile, Clint shook his head. "Joint mission. Not much poking required. Just didn't expect a British operative to be chillin' here in Westchester. Besides, your background is all smoke and mirrors and you know it."
"Ladies do love to have a bit of mystery," Jennie said, finishing out the stretch and then rolling her neck. "Like I said, the mansion has a fair bit of spooks running around. And I am, as the term goes, deactivated and formally disavowed, so it's not so much a British operative but a plucky girl running her own business and living out the American dream." She swept an errant curl behind her ear.
Clint winced, then shook his head a little. "Wondered about that. Mission parameters specified no contact after extraction, but when everything across the Atlantic went dark in 2013..." He shrugged. "I'd transferred to SWORD by then, so had a little bit more intel on your kind of party. Not much more, obviously. Nobody knew anything - that whole 'disavowed' thing is really inconvenient."
"Of course not," Jennie said. "We wouldn't be good at our jobs if you knew anything at all." She turned and walked toward the mirrored wall, where her water bottle sat perched on a stool. She took a drink and leaned against the wall, her body language languid and relaxed. "Have you come here to show off your research skills? Well, gold star for the good little boy," she said, her tone light and playful.
"No," Clint said, still smiling a little. His eyes, though, were serious and just a little too knowing when he continued, "I'm Hawkeye. I worked with Fian on the mission, got along pretty well. Was he disavowed, too, when everything went dark? Or do your scrubbing protocols mean you don't know what happened to anyone else from your organization?"
"Ah," Jennie said, her eyes looking past Clint for a second. "Ah," she looked back up and met his eyes. "The American. The 'fecking bastard' bowman. I should have put two and two together. But Moscow was rough on all of us, wasn't it? Pleased to really meet you, then. I was Nemesis."
"That's me. Fecking bastard bowman. He lost at least eighty quid before he stopped betting I couldn't hit the targets he named. Nice to meet you," Clint said. From her reaction, he didn't think whatever'd happened to Fian was good. Or that she knew, maybe. Lack of an answer is kind of an answer. The words echoed in his mind and he shook his head a little to shush it.
Clint couldn't know it, but he removed all of the air in her lungs. She took another sip of water. "Fian's dead, I'm afraid, so I wouldn't be counting on that money." The lightness was still there, but there was also a weight. An almost unfathomable ocean of grief.
Jaw clenching just a little, just enough for it to show, Clint nodded. He pressed his shoulders a little harder into the wall behind him. His tone matched hers as he said, "Damn. With the exchange rate being what it is, I was looking at having a bit of extra money for Christmas shopping."
It was like Clint had just detonated a nuclear bomb into her afternoon. She sighed. "I guess classes will have to be canceled, on account of teacher needing some alcohol time," she pinched the bridge of her nose. "You're buying."
"Sure," Clint said, nodding easily. It was the least he could do, after all. It'd been her team, her people. "Lady's choice."
Jennie snapped off the music, the silence filling the room like a weight. "I have to wrap up some things in the office. Meet me at Harry's in 15."
"Yes, ma'am," Clint said, giving her a small salute. He might go and get a head start. And also probably a basket of chili cheese fries because it seemed like the kind of thing he should be eating while drinking remembrance beers.
An hour later, Jennie set down her second beer and sighed. "That's the story," she said, twisting one of the silver rings on her fingers. She'd changed back into street clothes, called Marnie, sent out emails, and then met Clint. She'd wanted to grab him by the lapels and demand everything that happened between him and Donal, wanting to hear from someone else who had known him, the real him. Which meant, of course, having to tell Clint what had happened to him.
"Fuck," Clint said, flagging down the bartender. He ordered them shots and more bar food because Jesus. "That is... that is really fucked up, J. Super hella massively fucked up."
"Yeah," Jennie said, leaning back into the booth. "Nige and Pash are ok, I just checked in on them. And things have gotten ...quiet. Which worries me. But--" she drained the last of her beer. "It's strange having someone else who knows him. Some days I forget what he was really like. And all I can see when I close my eyes is what's left of him."
"Six million different shades of suck," Clint said as their shots arrived. "Good to know they're okay, though. I mean. Cold comfort, considering, but." Shaking his head slowly, he rubbed at the back of his neck before reaching for his shot glass. Good vodka, the best they had here. "They say no news is good news," he muttered, frowning a little. "But. But sometimes no news is news in and of itself. Just like answers."
"Yes," Jennie answered dully. "Slainte," she held up the shot and then downed it. She preferred to shoot whiskey, but she wasn't buying. The vodka was cold, crisp and it burned. There was silence for a bit, then--
"What was he like, in Moscow? We were all separated, and I worried my head off after him. When I saw him afterwords with that big dumb grin I wanted to run him over with a car."
"He was good," Clint said. "I mean, like actually good. It was so fucking boring for days, so we basically just hung out. That's when he lost all the bets. And then all of a sudden it wasn't boring anymore, it was all..." He waved his hand a little. "You know what it was like. But even then, he could read the group and what was going on. We worked well together. Smooth."
Jennie nodded. "I trained him. Way back when. When it was just three dumb kids in a park. When I met him Donal was just a greasy, drunk mechanic who couldn't even throw a proper punch. And Winston-- that kid. Geez. He was so gung-ho about everything, about being a 'proper superhero' and Donal just egged him on. That's how we got tangled up in everything." Jennie looked into her beer glass, seeing those faraway mornings. "I wonder, some days. How much better it would have been if they'd never met me."
Clint waggled his hand back and forth before taking his own shot. He flipped the shot glass over with a clink and then reached for his beer. "You can't think like that. I mean, what would've happened? Sure - there're all these theories about parallel universes, right? Like, branching out every time you make a choice. Think every possibility, every option you've ever had in your entire life. Exponential parallel and alternate universes..." He trailed off and shook his head. "But it doesn't matter because here, you did. Can't change the past, just have to move on. Everybody's got regrets and questions, you just..." He shrugged.
That got a laugh out of Jennie. A big belly laugh that was just a hair shy of being hysterical. It took her a moment to get herself under control. "I'm sorry," she wheezed, rubbing away the brightness in her eyes. "The universe and it's fucked up rules are old friends of mine, comes with being a probability manipulator. And--" Jennie trailed off, because Clint had literally no idea what he had just said, and it was hilarious. Honestly, truly. Jennie understood what parallel universes meant on an intimate level, and the horror of the old one had followed her into this shiny new one.
Too much, Clint thought. Too much. He wasn't sure too much of what, though. Shaking his head a little, he reached for his beer and finished it off. "C'mon, we should... head back to the mansion. Before... I don't know, before some kid falls out of a tree and kills himself."
"Yeah, I actually care about the little buggers, since I used to be one," Jennie polished off her beer. She stood, and let the floatiness wash through her. She let Clint follow outside, where the air was finally letting go of summer and slipping into fall.
"Look, I--" Jennie shrugged. "I got nuthin'. I'm doing what I can, but the Home Office wants nothing to do with Her or with me or my guys. Especially since she's left Britain for God knows where. And I don't want you poking into places without me knowing. They're beyond dangerous, and the last thing I want is for him to find me here in New York." There was no question about who 'he' was.
"I quit SWORD for a reason, but I wouldn't want to hand this to them without some prep," Clint said, shaking his head. "Prep I can't do on my own and don't have the resources to hand off. I might warn one or two people to keep their eyes open, but I'm not going to be poking around and the only reason I'd let them know is so they could see the signs and avoid... this. The whole thing. So don't worry, I won't bring any attention your way."
"You're a dude who's got 'special operative' practically tattooed on his forehead, sometimes it's like asking a windchime to be quiet in a hurricane," Jennie sighed and stuck her hands in her pockets. "Let's head back. I now have a wiggins that the place may have burned down in our absence."
Clint laughed a little and shook his head. "Fair enough. But I'll try really hard not to make any noise despite the wind. Promise." He nodded toward the car he'd driven over.
"Lead on, Cochise."
After getting nothing concrete back from his contact about Miss Stavros, just a rumor here or there and an interesting potential intersection with one of those rumors and a mission he'd been a part of in Europe, he'd decided to forego any further surreptitious poking. Sometimes, just asking someone was the best way to get an answer - because if they didn't answer, that was sort of an answer in and of itself, wasn't it?
Clint had come through the salon first, gotten turned around, and then been directed to the outside entrance to the upstairs studio. Old buildings were very scenic and whatnot, but their architecture was often confusing. Of course, once he knew what he was looking for, he was pretty sure Steve would have a heart attack at him not having paid enough attention to the building to see it as he approached.
Shrugging to himself, Clint pushed open the door at the top of the stairs and took in the brightness of the light streaming through the windows. Even colorblind, he could see that it made the wooden floors glow. It was like the light just bounced around, floor to ceiling to windows to floor again. Leaning back against the wall near the door, he let his eyes move over the grain of the wood, following patterns that no one else would be able to see as he waited for Jennie to notice he was there - or, if she'd already noticed, to free herself up to speak to him.
Jennie leaned forward, her body graceful as she moved into position, stretching out her muscles. She was dressed in a leotard and tights, hair up in a bun, looking every bit the professional ballerina. But her form was no longer lithe and willowy. Her muscles now spoke of strength, speed, and power. "Good afternoon Mr. Barton," she said, not looking up nor wavering in her movements, limbs flowing from one form to the next. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"
"February 2012," Clint said, tipping his head back a bit so he could watch her movements.
"Moscow," Jennie didn't even pause. "That was a grand old time. Have you gone poking about in my background?" this time she looked up, and her blue eyes were full of something... mischief maybe. Or glee that the bait had finally been taken. "Tsk tsk, naughty boy. You haven't even bought me a drink first."
Quirking a smile, Clint shook his head. "Joint mission. Not much poking required. Just didn't expect a British operative to be chillin' here in Westchester. Besides, your background is all smoke and mirrors and you know it."
"Ladies do love to have a bit of mystery," Jennie said, finishing out the stretch and then rolling her neck. "Like I said, the mansion has a fair bit of spooks running around. And I am, as the term goes, deactivated and formally disavowed, so it's not so much a British operative but a plucky girl running her own business and living out the American dream." She swept an errant curl behind her ear.
Clint winced, then shook his head a little. "Wondered about that. Mission parameters specified no contact after extraction, but when everything across the Atlantic went dark in 2013..." He shrugged. "I'd transferred to SWORD by then, so had a little bit more intel on your kind of party. Not much more, obviously. Nobody knew anything - that whole 'disavowed' thing is really inconvenient."
"Of course not," Jennie said. "We wouldn't be good at our jobs if you knew anything at all." She turned and walked toward the mirrored wall, where her water bottle sat perched on a stool. She took a drink and leaned against the wall, her body language languid and relaxed. "Have you come here to show off your research skills? Well, gold star for the good little boy," she said, her tone light and playful.
"No," Clint said, still smiling a little. His eyes, though, were serious and just a little too knowing when he continued, "I'm Hawkeye. I worked with Fian on the mission, got along pretty well. Was he disavowed, too, when everything went dark? Or do your scrubbing protocols mean you don't know what happened to anyone else from your organization?"
"Ah," Jennie said, her eyes looking past Clint for a second. "Ah," she looked back up and met his eyes. "The American. The 'fecking bastard' bowman. I should have put two and two together. But Moscow was rough on all of us, wasn't it? Pleased to really meet you, then. I was Nemesis."
"That's me. Fecking bastard bowman. He lost at least eighty quid before he stopped betting I couldn't hit the targets he named. Nice to meet you," Clint said. From her reaction, he didn't think whatever'd happened to Fian was good. Or that she knew, maybe. Lack of an answer is kind of an answer. The words echoed in his mind and he shook his head a little to shush it.
Clint couldn't know it, but he removed all of the air in her lungs. She took another sip of water. "Fian's dead, I'm afraid, so I wouldn't be counting on that money." The lightness was still there, but there was also a weight. An almost unfathomable ocean of grief.
Jaw clenching just a little, just enough for it to show, Clint nodded. He pressed his shoulders a little harder into the wall behind him. His tone matched hers as he said, "Damn. With the exchange rate being what it is, I was looking at having a bit of extra money for Christmas shopping."
It was like Clint had just detonated a nuclear bomb into her afternoon. She sighed. "I guess classes will have to be canceled, on account of teacher needing some alcohol time," she pinched the bridge of her nose. "You're buying."
"Sure," Clint said, nodding easily. It was the least he could do, after all. It'd been her team, her people. "Lady's choice."
Jennie snapped off the music, the silence filling the room like a weight. "I have to wrap up some things in the office. Meet me at Harry's in 15."
"Yes, ma'am," Clint said, giving her a small salute. He might go and get a head start. And also probably a basket of chili cheese fries because it seemed like the kind of thing he should be eating while drinking remembrance beers.
An hour later, Jennie set down her second beer and sighed. "That's the story," she said, twisting one of the silver rings on her fingers. She'd changed back into street clothes, called Marnie, sent out emails, and then met Clint. She'd wanted to grab him by the lapels and demand everything that happened between him and Donal, wanting to hear from someone else who had known him, the real him. Which meant, of course, having to tell Clint what had happened to him.
"Fuck," Clint said, flagging down the bartender. He ordered them shots and more bar food because Jesus. "That is... that is really fucked up, J. Super hella massively fucked up."
"Yeah," Jennie said, leaning back into the booth. "Nige and Pash are ok, I just checked in on them. And things have gotten ...quiet. Which worries me. But--" she drained the last of her beer. "It's strange having someone else who knows him. Some days I forget what he was really like. And all I can see when I close my eyes is what's left of him."
"Six million different shades of suck," Clint said as their shots arrived. "Good to know they're okay, though. I mean. Cold comfort, considering, but." Shaking his head slowly, he rubbed at the back of his neck before reaching for his shot glass. Good vodka, the best they had here. "They say no news is good news," he muttered, frowning a little. "But. But sometimes no news is news in and of itself. Just like answers."
"Yes," Jennie answered dully. "Slainte," she held up the shot and then downed it. She preferred to shoot whiskey, but she wasn't buying. The vodka was cold, crisp and it burned. There was silence for a bit, then--
"What was he like, in Moscow? We were all separated, and I worried my head off after him. When I saw him afterwords with that big dumb grin I wanted to run him over with a car."
"He was good," Clint said. "I mean, like actually good. It was so fucking boring for days, so we basically just hung out. That's when he lost all the bets. And then all of a sudden it wasn't boring anymore, it was all..." He waved his hand a little. "You know what it was like. But even then, he could read the group and what was going on. We worked well together. Smooth."
Jennie nodded. "I trained him. Way back when. When it was just three dumb kids in a park. When I met him Donal was just a greasy, drunk mechanic who couldn't even throw a proper punch. And Winston-- that kid. Geez. He was so gung-ho about everything, about being a 'proper superhero' and Donal just egged him on. That's how we got tangled up in everything." Jennie looked into her beer glass, seeing those faraway mornings. "I wonder, some days. How much better it would have been if they'd never met me."
Clint waggled his hand back and forth before taking his own shot. He flipped the shot glass over with a clink and then reached for his beer. "You can't think like that. I mean, what would've happened? Sure - there're all these theories about parallel universes, right? Like, branching out every time you make a choice. Think every possibility, every option you've ever had in your entire life. Exponential parallel and alternate universes..." He trailed off and shook his head. "But it doesn't matter because here, you did. Can't change the past, just have to move on. Everybody's got regrets and questions, you just..." He shrugged.
That got a laugh out of Jennie. A big belly laugh that was just a hair shy of being hysterical. It took her a moment to get herself under control. "I'm sorry," she wheezed, rubbing away the brightness in her eyes. "The universe and it's fucked up rules are old friends of mine, comes with being a probability manipulator. And--" Jennie trailed off, because Clint had literally no idea what he had just said, and it was hilarious. Honestly, truly. Jennie understood what parallel universes meant on an intimate level, and the horror of the old one had followed her into this shiny new one.
Too much, Clint thought. Too much. He wasn't sure too much of what, though. Shaking his head a little, he reached for his beer and finished it off. "C'mon, we should... head back to the mansion. Before... I don't know, before some kid falls out of a tree and kills himself."
"Yeah, I actually care about the little buggers, since I used to be one," Jennie polished off her beer. She stood, and let the floatiness wash through her. She let Clint follow outside, where the air was finally letting go of summer and slipping into fall.
"Look, I--" Jennie shrugged. "I got nuthin'. I'm doing what I can, but the Home Office wants nothing to do with Her or with me or my guys. Especially since she's left Britain for God knows where. And I don't want you poking into places without me knowing. They're beyond dangerous, and the last thing I want is for him to find me here in New York." There was no question about who 'he' was.
"I quit SWORD for a reason, but I wouldn't want to hand this to them without some prep," Clint said, shaking his head. "Prep I can't do on my own and don't have the resources to hand off. I might warn one or two people to keep their eyes open, but I'm not going to be poking around and the only reason I'd let them know is so they could see the signs and avoid... this. The whole thing. So don't worry, I won't bring any attention your way."
"You're a dude who's got 'special operative' practically tattooed on his forehead, sometimes it's like asking a windchime to be quiet in a hurricane," Jennie sighed and stuck her hands in her pockets. "Let's head back. I now have a wiggins that the place may have burned down in our absence."
Clint laughed a little and shook his head. "Fair enough. But I'll try really hard not to make any noise despite the wind. Promise." He nodded toward the car he'd driven over.
"Lead on, Cochise."