Namor & Clint, Natasha & Clint |
May. 20th, 2018 03:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsNamor turns up in Clint's lab with a request...
Clint had on his headgear, but all the specialized pieces — the light, the visor, the various lenses — were flipped up so they didn't interfere with his view of the mechanism in his hands. "Just... a little more..." He muttered, contemplating flipping down the shield portion to cover his eyes just in case the mechanism didn't handle the extra pressure and snap.
He didn't, though, just cracked his neck, applied the pressure, and moved his tweezers to hook an incredibly thin piece of wire over a small protrusion. After tagging gently, he released his grip on the tweezers and sat back as he exhaled.
Another noise broke the silence, then, as the man who had been standing patiently (and silently) in the corner cleared his throat. There was no telling how long he had been there, but Namor was looming in a corner like he was haunting its shadows. The look on his face spoke of nothing but business.
“Hey, man,” Clint said, blinking up at Namor. “‘Sup?” Sitting his tools down carefully, he nudged his stool away from the counter and took his headgear off entirely. Then, catching onto the seriousness of the Atlantean’s expression, his eyebrows went up and he asked, “Everything okay?”
“We strongly suggest you stretch your limited intuition.” He waited a minute, expectant. “We can wait.”
“Dude, just tell me what’s wrong.”
Namor sighed a little. “It is a challenge to keep track of everyone’s powers here. Is it just the upsetting, sexy white-haired woman’s power to read minds? Is that not common?”
Clint blinked. “Who?” Then he shook his head and said, “Wait, you’re asking about telepaths? I dunno how common it is, but we’ve got a few. Um…” Squinting a little, he used his foot to twist his stool back and forth.
“There’s Professor Xavier, but he’s only here half the time these days. And he’s a dude and bald. Quent’s just got his TK at the moment, still working on getting his TP back online -- also a dude. There’s the quintet blondes whose names I can never keep straight. Rachel’s not at the mansion at the moment, but she’s a redhead. So is Jean.”
Puffing out his cheeks, Clint tilted his head to the side and said, “I dunno about Topaz, she’s got the whole empathy thing? Oh! Emma Frost. Oh! Sexy, white-haired, telepathic lady. Yes.”
“Very good. 10 points to the Falcon house.”
“Hawk,” Clint said, snorting softly. “Why do you wanna know?”
He sighed again, visibly deflated. It was subtle, however, and if had someone not been around the King of Atlantis as much as Clint (and, honestly, Kitty), they may not have noticed. “We have a problem with the royal accoutrement.”
“You mean the stuff you were wearing when you came out of the fancy cryotube in Barrow?” Clint eyed Namor, brow arched.
“Yes.” He nodded, pointedly, at the trident he was holding. “I hope you understand that I do not carry this item for just any casual setting.”
“Sure,” Clint nodded. “So what’s the problem?”
“It is no longer fulfilling its purpose,” and there was the twinge in the other man -- or whatever’s voice -- a subtle cord of intense concern.
“What’s its purpose?” Clint asked it patiently, knowing it could sometimes take Namor a while to actually divulge vital information.
Which wasn’t wrong.
Namor gestured meaningfully at the trident, waving it briefly in the air likes its incredible cosmic powers were readily apparent. “What is has always done. No longer.”
“What’s it always done?”
This earned Clint a long, hard stare. Then suddenly, Namor was off his feet and the trident was pressed dangerously near the archer’s neck.
A beat.
“The water in your body should be pouring out through your nose, Archer.”
“Good think you knew that wouldn’t work,” Clint said, one eyebrow rising. “Bee-Tee-Dubs, this is my unimpressed face.” Reaching over, he gestured toward the trident. “If you want me to fix it, you need to tell me what’s wrong, how it went wrong, and anything else you know about it. I’m good with tech, I’m obviously willing to help, but I can’t read minds. Otherwise, I might make it worse.”
Namor returned to his seat, sighing. “I used the trident heavily while helping the Xavier Militia. As is often the price of favors, it came at a heavy personal toll. The weapon is just a perfectly balanced weapon of war. It has lost its spark — the ability to move oceans, influence life itself.”
Nodding, Clint asked, “Do you know how it did that? What created or supported the spark?”
Another hard look. “The trident failed while in combat with the flaming golem. While I naturally rose above the occasion to prevail, I have an image as Lord of All Oceans to maintain.”
“Yep,” Clint says, nodding. “Definitely need to maintain that image. But what I need to know is whether or not you know how the trident actually controlled the oceans and potentially influenced life itself. Because I don’t wanna do something that would actually interfere with that. I need to know how to restart the spark.”
“It has always worked.” He may have shrugged, but it was such an awkward movement on the Atlante-man that Clint may have been hallucinating. “If I knew I would not need your assistance, Archer.”
Clint nodded, then hung his head low for a moment before saying, “Okay, that’s fair. You can leave it on the counter there, and I’ll start working on it as soon as I’ve finished this. Do you mind if I ask Molly to come take a look at it, too? She’s got some experience with Asgardian tech that might be helpful.”
Namor carefully set the item down, staring at it. “I warn you not to trust the Asgardians, Clint, but I am not your keeper.”
“What?” Clint asked, shocked. “Why?”
And, again, a stare. “The Asgardians were ancient when Atlantis was new. Your darling child may claim some expertise, but trust no one who claims to be a god to share any of their secrets.”
Not entirely sure what to say, Clint just nodded. He didn’t think mentioning that he was friends with Thor would be the bet idea at the moment — and yet, he also didn’t think that Namor’s advice was something to discount. “Okay,” he said after a moment. He nodded again, then said, “Thank you for telling me that.”
Namor nodded, and then was immediately all business again. “Tell me when I can expect a resolution to this problem.”
“Give me a week to see what I can find out. I’ll give you an update next Sunday. I can’t promise I’ll have fixed the trident, but I’ll be able to tell you whether or not there’s a chance. I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything more than that, but the last time I tinkered around with Atlantean tech, we wound up with fish-dicks in the manion’s lab.”
“Ah, the Lemurians,” and the look in Namor’s eyes were almost nostalgic, “That was a good day.”
Cracking a smile, Clint said, “Yeah. Yeah, it was.”
After the conversation with Namor, Clint heads over to Tasha's to angst a little... and make unexpected agreements.
Walking into the suite he shared with Tasha, Clint headed straight for Tasha’s door. He opened it, slunk inside, found her, and said, “I deserve four gold stars for the conversation I just had with Namor. Four.”
Natasha had just stepped out of the shower and was wrapped in towels when the door started to open. She casually reached for the set of throwing knives tucked into the top drawer of her dresser. She arched an eyebrow when she saw it was Clint. “And why is this necessary?”
“It was like pulling teeth. I mean, seriously. He comes in and lurks, which is fine. But then he says he needs help with a thing, so I’m like -- what’s the thing? And he’s like, ‘This thing.’ So I’m like -- okay, dude. How’s the thing work? And he’s like, ‘Like it always has.’ And then he points out he wouldn’t need to ask me to fix it if he knew how. And somewhere in there, he got all smiley about the fish-dicks,” Clint said. “Admittedly, smacking the fish-dicks around was pretty great.”
Natasha eyed him and wondered if he’d been mind-whammied and she hadn’t been informed. She scrubbed at her wet hair with the towel wrapped around her head. “Usually situations like that involve me being tied to a chair so I’d say you had it rather easy. Also, I’m sure smacking anything remotely dick shaped is fun.”
Snickering, Clint said, “Yeah, I mean. But not the fun smacking. Whatever -- not the point. I deserve four stickers. It’s your job to get Darcy to give them to me.”
“You currently have no favors to call in with me. So, convince me why exactly I should devote any brain power to the problem?”
“Because you’re my bestie four-eva.”
“Yes, this is true. But my prior point still stands.”
“Because then I’d owe you a favor.”
“You always owe me favors. This wouldn’t be any different from the usual.”
“Because it was Namor!” With a pause, Clint rubbed at his nose. “And he never wears shirts.”
Natasha gave Clint a calculating look. “Make it so he never wears shirts again and you’ll get your stars.”
Narrowing his eyes, Clint asked, "Define 'never.'"
“The next three months. It’s the summer.” She shrugged. “What’s he need shirts for?”
Still squinting, Clint considered the clarification and then nodded. "Done. He probably won't even notice."
“And the women of the mansion will greatly enjoy themselves.” Natasha pulled open her top drawer again. “You have earned your four stars then.”
Clint grinned. "You're so great. Also, the women aren't the only ones who're gonna be appreciating that view."
Natasha pulled out a sticker sheet of stars, which were from the same supplier as the ones Darcy normally used. She walked over to Clint then peeled four gold stars off to place them in a line across the middle of his forehead. “There. Four stars as earned.”
Eyes crossing, Clint asked, "Tasha! Where'd you get those from?"
Natasha smirked. “I have my sources. If you’re worried Darcy might notice any discrepancies, she won’t.”
"Most awesome," Clint said, grinning even more widely.
Clint had on his headgear, but all the specialized pieces — the light, the visor, the various lenses — were flipped up so they didn't interfere with his view of the mechanism in his hands. "Just... a little more..." He muttered, contemplating flipping down the shield portion to cover his eyes just in case the mechanism didn't handle the extra pressure and snap.
He didn't, though, just cracked his neck, applied the pressure, and moved his tweezers to hook an incredibly thin piece of wire over a small protrusion. After tagging gently, he released his grip on the tweezers and sat back as he exhaled.
Another noise broke the silence, then, as the man who had been standing patiently (and silently) in the corner cleared his throat. There was no telling how long he had been there, but Namor was looming in a corner like he was haunting its shadows. The look on his face spoke of nothing but business.
“Hey, man,” Clint said, blinking up at Namor. “‘Sup?” Sitting his tools down carefully, he nudged his stool away from the counter and took his headgear off entirely. Then, catching onto the seriousness of the Atlantean’s expression, his eyebrows went up and he asked, “Everything okay?”
“We strongly suggest you stretch your limited intuition.” He waited a minute, expectant. “We can wait.”
“Dude, just tell me what’s wrong.”
Namor sighed a little. “It is a challenge to keep track of everyone’s powers here. Is it just the upsetting, sexy white-haired woman’s power to read minds? Is that not common?”
Clint blinked. “Who?” Then he shook his head and said, “Wait, you’re asking about telepaths? I dunno how common it is, but we’ve got a few. Um…” Squinting a little, he used his foot to twist his stool back and forth.
“There’s Professor Xavier, but he’s only here half the time these days. And he’s a dude and bald. Quent’s just got his TK at the moment, still working on getting his TP back online -- also a dude. There’s the quintet blondes whose names I can never keep straight. Rachel’s not at the mansion at the moment, but she’s a redhead. So is Jean.”
Puffing out his cheeks, Clint tilted his head to the side and said, “I dunno about Topaz, she’s got the whole empathy thing? Oh! Emma Frost. Oh! Sexy, white-haired, telepathic lady. Yes.”
“Very good. 10 points to the Falcon house.”
“Hawk,” Clint said, snorting softly. “Why do you wanna know?”
He sighed again, visibly deflated. It was subtle, however, and if had someone not been around the King of Atlantis as much as Clint (and, honestly, Kitty), they may not have noticed. “We have a problem with the royal accoutrement.”
“You mean the stuff you were wearing when you came out of the fancy cryotube in Barrow?” Clint eyed Namor, brow arched.
“Yes.” He nodded, pointedly, at the trident he was holding. “I hope you understand that I do not carry this item for just any casual setting.”
“Sure,” Clint nodded. “So what’s the problem?”
“It is no longer fulfilling its purpose,” and there was the twinge in the other man -- or whatever’s voice -- a subtle cord of intense concern.
“What’s its purpose?” Clint asked it patiently, knowing it could sometimes take Namor a while to actually divulge vital information.
Which wasn’t wrong.
Namor gestured meaningfully at the trident, waving it briefly in the air likes its incredible cosmic powers were readily apparent. “What is has always done. No longer.”
“What’s it always done?”
This earned Clint a long, hard stare. Then suddenly, Namor was off his feet and the trident was pressed dangerously near the archer’s neck.
A beat.
“The water in your body should be pouring out through your nose, Archer.”
“Good think you knew that wouldn’t work,” Clint said, one eyebrow rising. “Bee-Tee-Dubs, this is my unimpressed face.” Reaching over, he gestured toward the trident. “If you want me to fix it, you need to tell me what’s wrong, how it went wrong, and anything else you know about it. I’m good with tech, I’m obviously willing to help, but I can’t read minds. Otherwise, I might make it worse.”
Namor returned to his seat, sighing. “I used the trident heavily while helping the Xavier Militia. As is often the price of favors, it came at a heavy personal toll. The weapon is just a perfectly balanced weapon of war. It has lost its spark — the ability to move oceans, influence life itself.”
Nodding, Clint asked, “Do you know how it did that? What created or supported the spark?”
Another hard look. “The trident failed while in combat with the flaming golem. While I naturally rose above the occasion to prevail, I have an image as Lord of All Oceans to maintain.”
“Yep,” Clint says, nodding. “Definitely need to maintain that image. But what I need to know is whether or not you know how the trident actually controlled the oceans and potentially influenced life itself. Because I don’t wanna do something that would actually interfere with that. I need to know how to restart the spark.”
“It has always worked.” He may have shrugged, but it was such an awkward movement on the Atlante-man that Clint may have been hallucinating. “If I knew I would not need your assistance, Archer.”
Clint nodded, then hung his head low for a moment before saying, “Okay, that’s fair. You can leave it on the counter there, and I’ll start working on it as soon as I’ve finished this. Do you mind if I ask Molly to come take a look at it, too? She’s got some experience with Asgardian tech that might be helpful.”
Namor carefully set the item down, staring at it. “I warn you not to trust the Asgardians, Clint, but I am not your keeper.”
“What?” Clint asked, shocked. “Why?”
And, again, a stare. “The Asgardians were ancient when Atlantis was new. Your darling child may claim some expertise, but trust no one who claims to be a god to share any of their secrets.”
Not entirely sure what to say, Clint just nodded. He didn’t think mentioning that he was friends with Thor would be the bet idea at the moment — and yet, he also didn’t think that Namor’s advice was something to discount. “Okay,” he said after a moment. He nodded again, then said, “Thank you for telling me that.”
Namor nodded, and then was immediately all business again. “Tell me when I can expect a resolution to this problem.”
“Give me a week to see what I can find out. I’ll give you an update next Sunday. I can’t promise I’ll have fixed the trident, but I’ll be able to tell you whether or not there’s a chance. I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything more than that, but the last time I tinkered around with Atlantean tech, we wound up with fish-dicks in the manion’s lab.”
“Ah, the Lemurians,” and the look in Namor’s eyes were almost nostalgic, “That was a good day.”
Cracking a smile, Clint said, “Yeah. Yeah, it was.”
After the conversation with Namor, Clint heads over to Tasha's to angst a little... and make unexpected agreements.
Walking into the suite he shared with Tasha, Clint headed straight for Tasha’s door. He opened it, slunk inside, found her, and said, “I deserve four gold stars for the conversation I just had with Namor. Four.”
Natasha had just stepped out of the shower and was wrapped in towels when the door started to open. She casually reached for the set of throwing knives tucked into the top drawer of her dresser. She arched an eyebrow when she saw it was Clint. “And why is this necessary?”
“It was like pulling teeth. I mean, seriously. He comes in and lurks, which is fine. But then he says he needs help with a thing, so I’m like -- what’s the thing? And he’s like, ‘This thing.’ So I’m like -- okay, dude. How’s the thing work? And he’s like, ‘Like it always has.’ And then he points out he wouldn’t need to ask me to fix it if he knew how. And somewhere in there, he got all smiley about the fish-dicks,” Clint said. “Admittedly, smacking the fish-dicks around was pretty great.”
Natasha eyed him and wondered if he’d been mind-whammied and she hadn’t been informed. She scrubbed at her wet hair with the towel wrapped around her head. “Usually situations like that involve me being tied to a chair so I’d say you had it rather easy. Also, I’m sure smacking anything remotely dick shaped is fun.”
Snickering, Clint said, “Yeah, I mean. But not the fun smacking. Whatever -- not the point. I deserve four stickers. It’s your job to get Darcy to give them to me.”
“You currently have no favors to call in with me. So, convince me why exactly I should devote any brain power to the problem?”
“Because you’re my bestie four-eva.”
“Yes, this is true. But my prior point still stands.”
“Because then I’d owe you a favor.”
“You always owe me favors. This wouldn’t be any different from the usual.”
“Because it was Namor!” With a pause, Clint rubbed at his nose. “And he never wears shirts.”
Natasha gave Clint a calculating look. “Make it so he never wears shirts again and you’ll get your stars.”
Narrowing his eyes, Clint asked, "Define 'never.'"
“The next three months. It’s the summer.” She shrugged. “What’s he need shirts for?”
Still squinting, Clint considered the clarification and then nodded. "Done. He probably won't even notice."
“And the women of the mansion will greatly enjoy themselves.” Natasha pulled open her top drawer again. “You have earned your four stars then.”
Clint grinned. "You're so great. Also, the women aren't the only ones who're gonna be appreciating that view."
Natasha pulled out a sticker sheet of stars, which were from the same supplier as the ones Darcy normally used. She walked over to Clint then peeled four gold stars off to place them in a line across the middle of his forehead. “There. Four stars as earned.”
Eyes crossing, Clint asked, "Tasha! Where'd you get those from?"
Natasha smirked. “I have my sources. If you’re worried Darcy might notice any discrepancies, she won’t.”
"Most awesome," Clint said, grinning even more widely.
