hasthehighground: In SHIELD gear, looking serious and tired (the job)
When Clint gets to work, first, he has the paperwork for acquisition forms on his desk. Beamon's unlucky enough to still be caught in traffic, so he shifts them to her desk. She's the team leader in the office, anyway; he shouldn't get shafted just because he's the one who requested the items.

He digs in Echo's file cabinet before pulling out the relevant form (though, still, Unforeseen Incident doesn't exactly involve alien bars with good coffee) and settling in to write.

He's wearing headphones, and they're just-off mission from New Mexico (where other aliens showed up), so for the first couple hours his team ignores him as they catch up on their own paperwork.

Something enters his periphereal vision and he raises up a hand to block it before realizing it's a mug of coffee. He glances further up at the person offering it, his sniper partner Schmidt.

"Hey, thanks," he says, taking one of his ear-buds out as he accepts it. He pulls open his desk drawer to grab a protein bar. He offers it to Schmidt, but she makes a face so he takes it for himself.

Schmidt leans against the cubicle divider, taking a drink from her own mug. "Don't worry about it. What's got you antisocial?"

Clint grimaces. "Need to know. Sorry, Schmidt."

"Say no more."

--

Jan's in town, which means it's easy enough to ask for him to deliver the file to Fury when he next sees him, or Coulson. It's only for Fury to open, but Clint would be more comfortable with Coulson having his hands on it than Jan who he's only known for eight years.

Clint spent a long time staring at the maps and detailed lists he'd created before giving it to Jan, searching his brain for any extra clue, but there wasn't anything else left for him to deduce.

The sheer weirdness of what happened oozes up on him, into his brain and under his skin, once the file is handed off.

If he leaves early, and spends the rest of the afternoon in Balboa Park watching people go about their every day lives --

Well, everyone has those days.
hasthehighground: leaned back casually, expression neutral (yeah I'm cool)

After Clint writes his notes but before he comes back from the bar, he grabs some bread, eggs, and maple syrup, because when a man promises French toast he's sure as hell gotta deliver.

There's no noise from the bedroom, and the clock says it's still the same time he left, so Clint grabs a sheet of note paper and writes a third note. Knowing Natasha has something on her is going to calm his nerves a bit.

This letter takes a lot longer to make than the other ones, because Clint has no idea what jobs Natasha is going to take in the near future or who he should pretend to be for the letter. He edits, and re-edits, several times in his head before settling on what he finally writes down:

 

Civilian letter )



Clint narrows his eyes at it, scanning it back over. Yeah, he's pretty sure that's soppy enough. Romance has never been his strong suit. He folds it and unfolds it a couple dozen times to give it a worn look, while listening to the early morning news, then sticks a salt shaker on it to weigh it down.

He starts work on breakfast, once he hears the shower start up. The only thing worse than no french toast is cold french toast.

hasthehighground: looking out of the corner of his eye (peripheral)

Clint's sitting in one of the worn, overstuffed leather armchairs by the fire tonight instead of the rafters because... well, because he's over forty, so fuck you he totally ranks seniority over most of the kids in this bar. He has earned this armchair.

His feet are propped up on the coffee table, and he's currently paused from his reading to eye the empty sofa speculatively. He's pretty sure he could get away with borrowing one of those throw pillows. But... moving.
 

hasthehighground: In SHIELD gear, looking serious and tired (the job)
Clint walks through the door into his (empty) apartment, and slings the bounce-y ball with all of his force into the bathroom. He hears it hitting off of the tiles before there're a series of plastic thuds as containers are knocked onto the floor, then silence. He sighs; tries to breathe deep, but can't manage it. He pinches the bridge of his nose instead, and slides down the wall so he's resting on the balls of his feet, facing the front door.

He can do this. He just --

He just.
hasthehighground: leaned back casually, expression neutral (yeah I'm cool)

Clint doesn't spend all of his time in the rafters. It's pretty hard to get refills up there.

So right now he's drinking a tall glass of milk on a barstool, facing outwards and leaning back slightly. He is giving the rafters a thoughtful look, though. He's starting to feel less bruised, after all.

hasthehighground: Natasha and Clint being quiet and happy at each other ([natasha] relaxed)
Following on from this post.

In the rafter over her head, there's a guy in civvies reading a book (something old, battered, and by Louis L'amour) and drinking coffee out of a thermos.

Not that she doesn't know that-- one thing he likes about Natasha is that she can be trusted to look up. It's been a long couple days; it's nice to just relax. Clint figures they'll actually talk when he gets a refill, or if she gets bored.

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Clint Barton

February 2017

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