Summary:Clint moves temporarily back into the Avengers mansion while fumigation of his old apartment occurs. Steve makes brownies and, in fact, does not burn them while the two comrades discuss mentorships - sometimes miracles happen. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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A rental van had made the turn off of 30th and onto the Avengers' drive, the wrought iron gates slowly opening before the vehicle and its sensors keyed to the security card in the pocket of the man in the driver's seat. Various alarm systems likely made those within aware of the arrival. At first classified as visitor by the visual scans, then with the card updated it makes notice.
« Agent Barton has arrived with a non-authorized vehicle. Initiating scan of vehicle contents and composition. »
Without, however, there's no sign of anything untoward as the Archer pushes open the door with a creeeak and steps out. He pauses long enough to grab his backpack from the passenger seat as well as a baseball bat. Both of which are carried to the front door and dropped off beside the entrance.
That having been done he turns back, moving to the back of the truck.
And who should appear at the door's entrance but Steve himself. He's got a small towel over his hands and he's apparently drying them. Someone's maybe puttering around in the kitchen…? A rarity, but sometimes he does, all the better to learn what NOT to do about a very safe and secure AI system more than happy to douse a burning result in flame-retardant foam.
"Thanks, JARVIS," he comments with a glance back into the mansion. Clint gets a curious grin. "Doesn't look like you brought anything compromising in the van. Wait." His expression becomes more solemn. "You didn't get evicted, did you?"
"Weeelll." Clint says as he walks back towards the YOUHAULIT truck, pulling open the sliding door on the side. "Sorta?" He says over his shoulder towards the Star-Spangled Avenger. Inside the van is that big television, a few black plastic cases which are often used for storage of firearms or sporting equipment, and a bunch of 8-track tapes of all things.
"Apparently the smell got into the walls and the paint and some of the woodwork." Clint grabs a few of the plastic containers by their handles, getting about four at a time as he slides them out of the back of the van, the plastic scraping on the metal floor. "So I'm not evicted evicted. Just…" He gives a half grin sidelong towards Cap, "Until they tear out the walls and repaint and such. And fumigate. So yeah."
That said he starts the march back up the walk towards the front door of the mansion. "So yeah, crashing here for a bit. If that's cool."
It's fairly obvious at first glance that Steve barely bit back a sympathetic laugh for the archer's plight. "Shouldn't be a problem. The guest bedrooms upstairs are open, second floor. Pick your room and set up your gear." He tosses the hand-towel over one shoulder and steps out to pick up two of the plastic containers. "Here, I'll help you move things. Brownies just went in. I've got about 28 minutes, give or take."
Yes, if they come in a box, the Captain can apparently make brownies. "Sorry to hear about the whole process. Was it the pizza?" There, at the corner of one side of his mouth, is a quirk, marring the innocent air he projects as a whole. At least he never followed through on sending any Swiffer Wet-Jets!
"Brownies?" Clint says at first eyeing the good Captain, but hey he helped to carry stuff so that buys him at least one moment of freedom from wry comments. Though it doesn't stop the archer from shaking his head with a half grin. "Yeah, what the heck. Only if you have milk though. Important."
"Just pile them up inside, I'll move them later." He says as he starts to build a pile just as he said, a few feet inside the door and against the wall. Each of the cases are made by the same manufacturer so they stack up rather precisely and well.
But then Cap presses on the details, "Yeah, sorta." Of course it was the pizza. "Though the kid breaking into the place didn't help my arguing position."
He stops just inside that archway, hands flaring open to the sides, "I still dunno what entirely to make of her. I mean… she's not a bad kid. Great taste in heroes." His lip twitches, "But I mean… apparently I left a good impression on her a few years ago and she's going into this whole business with her eyes open as much as any of us did, right?"
He then starts back out towards the YOUHAULIT, "Who am I to tell her not to? Though we didn't settle on the name issue. Still."
"There's milk in the fridge," comes the confirmation as Steve returns into view from stacking the first two containers he'd picked up. They make an efficient team as they talk and the interior of the van begins to empty out. The Captain listens in honest interest to the tale unraveling about this mysterious Kate in the purple suit, she who required a tackling to avert her sudden departure through a window.
"Still not settled on the name. Huh. Birdguy doesn't have the same ring, I agree." Steve grins as he briefly disappears inside. "Is she taking your gig? Archery, parkour, all that?" The question floats out before him as he reappears again.
Sliding one of the last boxes out of the back of the van he says as he passes by Cap, now that they've got the rhythm going. "She says she's good, haven't seen her shoot. She's smart, quick, a bit snarky for my taste but that could just be because I can dish it out but can't take it." His smile is wry in that rare, rare moment of self-awareness.
"And I dunno, part of me thinks it might be funny for us both to run around as Hawkeye, sow confusion amongst our enemies. Just…"
Clint stops for a moment once he gets back to the van and leans against the door, frowning and sighing a bit. Only thing that's left is the television. Oh and the two milk crates of 8-tracks. "I'd feel terrible if something happened to her because she chose this path because of me." In that brief moment of sincerity, Cap can likely tell it does weigh upon Clint's thoughts. He looks off to the side, frowning and chewing on the inside of his cheek.
"But what else can I do? Tell her no? That won't stop her. Try to scare her with the harsh realities of the thing? That's not my style." He shakes his head and only then starts to slide the big ass sixty five inch television out of the back of the truck, waiting for Cap to grab the other end before walking back up the way towards the door.
With his strength checked in his grip and engaged elsewise, Steve aids in lifting the TV out of the YOUHAULIT truck's bed. He keeps a careful eye about the single step leading up into the entryway as they pass over it and looks around the thin, elongated build of the TV at Clint.
"It's true. You really can't tell her not to do it. She's gotta learn for herself if this lifestyle's something she wants to embrace. It's not for everyone. There's nothing wrong with taking a step back and double-checking." He doesn't seem to have broken a single beadlet of sweat during this process, even despite the lingering heat of the day. "You intending to be a mentor?"
"I don't know." Clint says as they set the big TV down and he rests a hand on it. "Should I encourage her to do this? But I feel like she doesn't have the background." He turns away and starts the last walk back towards the truck, hands on his hips as he continues to speak over his shoulder at Cap.
"I mean, I didn't get an injection of Super Soldier Serum, but I had a lot of training and a lot of background before I leapt off the deep end." Clint stops and then casually pushes one of the boxes of 8-Tracks towards Steve, then reaches for the last box for himself. "I feel like she doesn't even have that background."
Hefting it up on his shoulder, Clint starts back. "You know me, usually I come to a snap decision and then move on it. But this… has me scratchin' my head."
Having followed along behind, Steve takes up the designated box of 8-tracks without a hint of difficulty. It gets tucked under his arm and he frowns as he muses over the potential problem at hand. "Not a bad thing to mull things over. Thinking on the fly is critical on the field, in combat. You've got a few days of hang-time while they fumigate." After they've entered the mansion, the Captain reaches back and pulls the door closed behind them.
"Some of us didn't have the background for what we're in now. Late learners — late bloomers, y'know, 'nd we don't suffer for it. Figure maybe the late bloomers are tempered by life first. Maybe they've got a different kind of wisdom to add into their drive to make this world a better place. She'll get better with your help." His shoulder lifts and falls in a mild-mannered shrug.
"I dunno, Cap." Clint says as he sets down the box and then dusts his hands off. He shakes his head and looks again off to the side, distantly at nothing. Back to Steve he adds, "On the one hand I am not exactly someone that has a ton of time. On the other hand, am I really someone she should be learning from? Most of what I know how to do is just…" He lifts a hand to the side and gestures, "Trickery, nonsense?"
A deep breath is taken and he half-smirks as he turns away, starting the trek to the kitchen. "Now clearly if you helped train her, that'd be the best idea. It'd leave me free to do… you know, important Hawkeye things, and she'd get a top tier level of knowledge."
Again he makes the motion of dusting his hands off, this time of the problem at hand named Kate Bishop. "There, glad we could come to that agreement." He says overly-hasty as if trying to talk over any objections Cap might have, "Let's go stare at the brownies until they're done. I hear that makes them bake faster."
The second box of 8-tracks ends up beside the first. Slithering from his broad shoulder, the hand-towel is used to wipe the light grime from Steve's palms as he eyes the archer with something nearing a knowing smile on his lips. The way he follows sedately behind the archer once more and into the kitchen, where the brownies are just beginning to emit their baked scent of sultry goodness, speaks to him not being convinced in the least by Clint's argument.
"Brownies are like boiling water," he says first, sounding sage. "That, 'nd 'm pretty sure her codename isn't Captain America. It's Hawkeye. She took it on because she's likely interested in what you have to share with her." The kitchen towel ends up hung over one of the drawer handles rather than tossed in a bundling on any of the spans of countertop. Steve leans up against the central island counter, his arms folded, still smiling that little smile at the archer. "Barton, she's not going to bite you. She's got a spine of steel. Like I said before, you've got a couple of days to figure things out. Maybe try training her once, see how it goes. Better you know not to do it through experience instead of never figuring it out…?"
"Ah Steve, yer killin' me." But the tone of him, the body language, it says otherwise considering that really Clint's known he's been at that point with himself already. Already argued with himself and Steve… he's just confirming it. He steps up to the kitchen prep table there and leans back against one of the chairs, leaving the oven in his line of sight but more focused on his comrade.
"I've trained people before. A whole slew of SHIELD cadets, tons in various classes. This just…" He shakes his head a little, "Seems like it'll be different. Since, First, she's not afraid of me like those greenhorns are. And B, she's not going to want to just learn how to shoot. But all of…" He gestures to the side, but leaves the rest unsaid.
"Anyways. I'll probably talk to her again soon." He says almost resigned to his fate.
Both hands lift up before his shoulders and Steve tilts his head to one side at the light-hearted remonstrating, as if to say, 'eh?' He then folds his arms once more and even goes about relaxing enough in the archer's presence to cross his ankles lightly in his lean on the counter.
"Nerves in front of the teacher're all well 'nd good, but just try teaching her like…" His voice fades off as he muses, his eyes lingering too on the oven's glass window.
"Teach her like a spec-ops cadet. Run her through a few scenarios, see where her weaknesses pan out, be realistic — if you can teach her, do. If not, teach her what you can 'nd send her on. Figure you'll do fine, Clint. You care enough to turn over all the stones in your thought process anyways." His palm rises from one bicep before landing back on his arm.
"Mmm," Is all Clint says for a time, the silence lingering as he looks off towards one of the walls. While he gives his thoughts to the matter he worries at the side of his mouth absently. It's only after perhaps twenty seconds or so before he shakes his head. "Alright, enough of that."
He turns to look at the oven and says, "Make this go faster." He casually pokes at the convection cooker and grumbles.
"If I could, I would." The sounds of rummaging in the cupboards means Steve comes out with two tall pint glasses. "Get the milk. We've got, what…five minutes left on 'em." Both glasses are set on the island counter and the gallon milk jug is pulled from the fridge. From the pocket of his jeans, the Captain pulls a rubber band. He offers it out to Clint with a smirk.
"Betcha can't make your first shot into your glass," claims he.
Have no doubt: Clint makes his first shot into his glass and Steve eats his words — or at least, a corner brownie, because that's the worst.