milliways_bar | (no subject)

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A guy dressed in black jeans and a worn purple t-shirt opens the door, and takes a half-step in. One foot over the doorway, and one foot in his world, he glances sideways to use his peripheral vision. Yep, apartment still there.

Huh.

"... Sure, why not," he says. He steps in, hesitating for the briefest of moments before letting go of the edge of the door so it closes behind him. Clint rubs his hand over the short hair on the back of his neck, and steps to the side of the door so he's not blocking it. He realizes he stands out, but a door showed up in his apartment. He's pretty sure it'd be weirder to not be confused.

[OOC: Clint has been re-set with a new mun! Hellooo. He is post-Thor, pre-Tesseract babysitting duty. Please don't spoil him re: the future.

~~Catch me in crackchat at the moment as TLvop~~, or check out the contact post in his journal -- I'm prone to slow, but slowtimes are A+ awesome :)]

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She frowns again at the bar, using that description to get a better idea of advantages and disadvantages of different routes.

Helps, when you don't expect that any and all hiding places can be incinerated.

"Huh." Oswin makes a mental note to never run for the couch - the 'open space' rule can get broken over there way too easily. "Three feet? Really? Seems... awkward."

That's, like. Over half of her.

"The whole thing, not just the blade," Clint clarifies. "They can get longer if they're for fencing or melée fighting -- those huge, Braveheart-type swords in movies. But you can't get much shorter than that until you get into things for stabbing."

He pauses. "One-handed swords are pretty light, actually, so it's not that awkward if you don't have to drag it up and around obstacles."

The 'Braveheart' reference goes completely over her head, though she makes a mental note to read up on it later.

(There will be no words for her horror over this whole 'hung, drawn, and quartered' business. Just. Really?)

"Guess it's just that no one uses swords where I'm from that makes it seem weird. Well. Most everyone, you hear stories about the Headless Monks."

"Headless Monks?" Clint asks, interested. He doesn't clarify that he only knows swords from the circus, because he's not aware it might need clarifying.

"The Order of the Headless - there's loads of stories about them, all of them at least a little bit creepy. Super fanatical, super secretive. You never hear one speak."

Of course, she's only really seen one, and it was in passing.

It was enough. Creepy isn't even half of it.

"Uh. Metaphorical, though, right?"

"Not according to most of the stories. But it's a level one heresy to lower their hoods, so... I doubt anyone ever finds out without volunteering." She makes a face, because that seems like a deeply stupid move to make with one's life.

Like she's one to talk.

"I never realized heresy had levels," Clint admits, amiably religiously oblivious. "Where're you from?"

"No where anyone here has heard of - one of the human colonies that's prettied itself up enough to warrant becoming a starliner hub." She's actually very happy about the fact she hasn't run into anyone who recognizes her world (or, at least, that she knows of). More open doors would mean a higher chance of them.

"Right," Clint says, with the sort of fake knowing that is as good (amongst his friends) as a question. "One of those."

"It's not much, which is why I left." She shrugs, "Joined the Alaska to see the stars. Can't argue with the view I've got now."

There's a pause, then a grin that's almost, oddly, shy.

"More souffle?"

She's still slightly weirded out (and entirely gleeful about) people liking her baked goods.

Clint gives this all the deep consideration it deserves.

(Which is to say, not long at all.)

"If you've got more," he says, and grins. What can he say, he likes making people happy by eating their (delicious, delicious) baked goods. It's humanitarianism. Yep. "But I'll cover drinks."

Her smile widens. He can tell Natasha that he's done his good deed for the day - she looks about as gleeful as a puppy going after a thrown ball.

"Chai tea - won't be a minute." And yup, that's practically some scampering going on right there.

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