#clintbartonbirdofprey

[notagentromanoff]

Let the record show...

That Clint Barton has never seen Who Framed Roger Rabbit? Shame him, internet! And wish him Happy Birthday. I suppose.

[drrobertbanner]

clintbartonbirdofprey replied to your post:I'm glad I know sign language, it's pretty handy.

Really is.

Do you sign?

[staturegirl]

Welcome to the Tower || Cassie & Clint

Staying at the Avengers Tower was nice. 

Well, maybe nice wasn't the right word for it, especially given the circumstances for her stay, but it was calming. Safe. Away from her dorm, away from people who were bound to start asking questions.

Away from the inevitable game that she'd have to play with Death and with an assassin Pietro had warned her to stay away from. She didn't enjoy lying, but she wasn't going to let Pietro know about that. It would be okay, everything would be fine. Completely fine.

So why did she wake up in a panic? Why did she still have nightmares? Why why why?

She hadn't gone to Mary's funeral. Hadn't gone because she couldn't face seeing her parents or siblings or anything like that. She needed to go to her grave, sometime. Go and bring flowers and one of those teddy bears you could get at a Hallmark shop. But not now. 

She had to focus on getting better, on doing her school work. Which she'd fallen behind on, for the first time in her life. That and food. Right, food. Which she'd gotten for Pietro but could hardly bring herself to eat. She'd had maybe part of a plate at the all-you-can-eat buffet, waving the waiters away when they'd asked her if she wanted something else, just needing to be near Pietro, near someone who would keep her calm and away from her nightmares. (Which, granted, hadn't been wildly successful but was still probably better than if she was back in her dorm room.

Pietro was somewhere else -- or maybe he was back in the bedroom. But Cassie needed to go for a walk. It was relatively early in the morning -- probably seven a.m. She made her way around the tower, careful not to go into any rooms, careful not to run into anyone who might question why she was here, early in the morning, in pajamas and why she had a suitcase in Pietro's room. 

There were far too many questions Cassie didn't want to answer. Her stomach grumbled. Food. Right. She ran her hands through her hair. "JARVIS?" She whispered. "Where's the kitchen?"

"Take a left, and a right, and a left, straight, and then another left and it should be right there." 

"Right. Thanks." At the very least she could get a glass of orange soda, or something. She made her way over to the kitchen, humming softly to herself. A lullaby Scott had sung her at the hospital all those many years ago. Cassie entered the kitchen and glanced around. She was pretty sure that any professional chef would be extremely jealous of what lay before her. 

She bit her lip and looked up at all the cupboards, examining them, wondering what she should eat. Because she needed to. As much as she wasn't hungry, she knew she needed to eat something, lest she lose her concentration more than was already the case.

All of a sudden, she jumped. There, on a counter, sat Clint Barton, who'd somehow managed to beat her at Connect Four back in the hospital. Without a shirt. In just sweatpants and the bandages around his torso. Shoot shoot shoot. She'd hoped no one else was up this early. Not that it was very early, but still. Didn't the Avengers ever sleep in? "Hey." She began, walking closer to him, the floor cold on her bare feet.

She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, suddenly all too aware that she was still in her pajama shorts and t-shirt. "Clint, right?" She raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest. "Hi. I promise I'm not stalking you from the hospital. I'm just staying with Pietro for a bit."

[notagentromanoff]

clintbartonbirdofprey replied to your post:[pm] Thoughts on Baldy McDouchebag and his lawsuit of stupid?

[pm] Talking about what? The weather? Or talking in general?

[pm] With you? Talking in general.

[notagentromanoff]

[pm] Thoughts on Baldy McDouchebag and his lawsuit of stupid?

[pm] I think it's not surprising ridiculous but that's not constructive and I'll be speaking to Matt in the morning. 

No talking in public.

[notagentromanoff]

clintbartonbirdofprey replied to your post:[pm] What kinda stuff does Thor like? You know, aside from eating and his giant paperweight?

[pm] I’m not escalating anything. It’s side-by-side, punishment fitting the crime. I’m adjacent-ing it.

[pm] I said no. Do I need to say it again?

Would you like something to do? Because you can help me look for Dupoint or you can help me analyze these freak accidents or you can take a turn with Barnes.

Or you can just not pick fights with a god. As a favor to me. Please.

[notagentromanoff]

[pm] What kinda stuff does Thor like? You know, aside from eating and his giant paperweight?

[pm] No. No. You are not escalating this. 

[xdevilinthedetailsx]

Trick Shot -- Clint & Matt

A jaw cracked, loudly, against one of Daredevil’s billy clubs, its owner sprawling to the ground. Matt sprang over the crumpled thug as the next attack came - a wild lunge with a knife at the end of it. Thank you, California. He launched out of his dodge, ricocheting off the wall to tackle the guy swinging the switchblade. His momentum turned the takedown into a takeoff, a spring into the men who’d been ripping into each other before he dropped in to crash the party. Thank you for a wonderfully unsurprising, uncomplicated day. Really. There’d been a mugger and a pair of coke dealers to knock out that morning, then a carjacking, as he wandered around Glendale. Matt had been exploring Pasadena when he heard this brawl get going. He’d followed the noise to the back of a hollow, factory-style building on a fenced lot, and found a little minor gang violence to wrap up the evening. Leather, engine oil, cheap beer and Jack Daniel’s on the air, mingling with blood, from those who’d already taken a hit; he’d guess bikers. No firearms. This was just an old-fashioned beatdown, and there was only one way to deal with those... Between acclimatizing to the city and introducing Los Angeles to its newest vigilante, Matt had been keeping busy - busier than he should be, maybe, with his stitches still healing. But after the other night... the sunny R&R Foggy kept suggesting had flown entirely off the table. He’d found himself hunting for distractions, something, anything to stop him from sinking into his own thoughts, into every aching feeling and memory that had welled up the second he caught rose oil and jasmine on the warm California breeze. The last two months had been one long, drawn out clusterfuck, but Matt had cleaned up the mess as well as he could, and L.A. was going to be a new, fresh start. He’d been trying to look at it that way, at least... but his past, the most painful, cryptic piece of it, had been waiting just around the corner. Sais at the ready. Elektra was here, of all places. Matt could find her again, not easily, maybe... but he could. If he wanted to. Did he? Focus, damn it! Stop. Thinking. About. Her! Another one crumpled, winded by a knee to the gut, the end of a billy club ramming into his shoulderblade. Where was some B-level, Sinister Six wannabe when you needed one? Even when he was this tired, this sore, these goons weren’t nearly enough of a challenge to keep his mind off of things. Everything. Elektra. Most of the crowd was hopped up on something - meth, if their rattling heartbeats and that sharp, ammonia tang to their sweat were anything to go by - but a guy in a devil getup had just torn through their miniature turf war. The ones that could still stand had started to scatter. Two pairs of hammering footsteps were booking it towards the chain link fence, the street; another three had sprinted off in a different direction, heading for the outbuildings. All panting for breath, easy to aim for... Matt sidestepped and spun by the last guy who was thinking to try his luck, smashing the man’s nose with a quick elbow strike. Breaking into a run, he fired off his grappling hook and launched off the concrete, shooting for the group of three as they scrambled away. And then... they weren’t. There was a hiss, a swishing snap, a streak through his radar, and the whole group collapsed in a struggling pile. The same, strangely familiar noise sounded again as they started to fall; across the yard, the other two came crashing down. What the hell - ? Breaking his swing, Matt made a neat landing next to the first squirming, swearing heap of bodies. A net. He could sense the outline of the strands pinning the three of them together. And - he reached out to an odd shape, a thin shaft sticking out of the net. Attached to it. His fingers trailed over thin fins, a nock. A net arrow. A smirk crossed Matt’s face. That explained the hissing sound. And there, up on the corner of that shipping container. A silhouette and a steady, calm heartbeat. That had to be Robin Hood. As far as he’d heard, L.A. only had two resident archers who might have access to this kind of gear... Behold the majestic Hawkeye, in its natural environment. The male of the species, if the musk of Old Spice and jerky is anything to go by. “Nice toys,” Matt turned towards the figure, switching his grip on the billy clubs. Ready for a dodge, a throw. Just in case. “So, is this my welcome to Sherwood? Or your way of telling me to keep off your lawn?”