milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Clint's putting an unlit cigarette in his mouth when he enters the bar; he stops for a brief moment before shrugging and putting the cigarette back in its box, tucking it away in his blazer. Unlike last time, he's dressed like an office worker just off work, loosened tie included. If you don't notice the concealed holster and his shined black combat boots, and people usually don't.

He grabs a beer from the bar, and leans back to watch the crowd.

[OOC: Aaaand I am asleep! Slowtimes all around? ♥. No new threads, please.]

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That she is, otherwise she would have saved it for a trump card later.

(A lot of creeps back off if they think she belongs to someone; and Clint is nicely intimidating.)

"Life is filled with paperwork," Natasha says, her smile the kind of resigned that someone gets when they don't particularly mind. "A lot of running around archives. I think I might be sent off for a conference soon, though."

Nina, she thinks, not Annie - she needs to be Russian the places she'll be going.

"Are you guys drowning in red tape, too?"

Edited 2013-02-24 09:25 (UTC)

"Drowning's a good word for it," he says, and huffs a laugh that's not really amused at all, rolling his shoulders. "We had an argument over the filing cabinet. Nick and Aly had an argument over the filing cabinet."

By his tone, it was clearly not the type Schmidt and Huerte would start taking bets on; more the type where everyone else kept very quiet and hoped it wouldn't boil over onto them.

Natasha frowns at him, startled and confused. Beamon and Henry?

"Did they smooth it over?"

"Yeah. I think so." He rubs at his face. "Worked through my lunch break, though, to make up the slack."

If they were publicly being friends, she wouldn't do this, but pretending to be a couple has its advantages: she lays her hand on the table, an offer of comfort if he wants.

"Then you need to eat, dearest," Nadine says with a quiet smile.

Clint doesn't take it, but he presses his foot a little more firmly against her leg, gratefully, and quirks an almost-smile back at her.

"Yeah, I heard something about experimenting with food."

She turns her hand over with a quick smile, and traces a pattern on the table-top. It can be hard to tell with Clint sometimes what he will and won't accept, but the pressure of his foot says more than a hug would in other men.

"All of the experimentation," she says, tone nearly gleeful. Spying a waiter (a rat. a waiter who is a rat) she raises her hand to catch its attention.

"I'd like Moroccan Chicken Tagine, with olives and lemon, and some green tea to drink. And a glass of lemonade. Clint?"

He probably shouldn't start with dessert first.

"Two Brazilian-style palm heart pastels, some sweet potato fries with rosemary, and a grilled skewer of shrimp and lemon. And lemonade sounds good for me, too, thanks."

Edited 2013-02-24 10:49 (UTC)

The waiter-rat chitters at them, and then scampers off. Natasha watches it, faint lines of confusion between her eyes.

"I presume if we keep coming here, we're going to get used to that."

"Pretty sure that's a lost cause, for me," he says. "Last time I was here, they were stealing this lady's kitchen stuff because, I don't know. They didn't like her soufflé? It was pretty good."

"Because they didn't like her soufflé," she repeats, slowly.

Just to make sure she heard correctly, you understand.

"That's how I understood it," he says. "Admittedly, I'd never had soufflé before, so I could be missing something."

He's also not an alien rat. That... might be more important.

"They are evil, it is true.

But to make, not to eat."

At least as far as she concerned, wretched deliciousness.

"Yeah?"

"There are reasons," she says, darkly, "why you've never seen me make one.

Reasons."

(Except that it's possible that once she goes home, she's going to attempt one.

Again.)

Clint eyes her for a long moment, then laughs quietly.

"You could buy one for dessert. Just to spite it."

"That would be cheating.

I accept."

She doesn't laugh, but she does smile back at him, quiet and happy. Then her expression sobers a little. "Our boss get your report?"

"Yeah. He's here, too; says we're off-duty in this secret club. And to use it if we want to catch some z's or shorten up sick leave, because time doesn't pass outside, but not to put off work."

Fury can tell when you're being lazy. With telepathy. Clint believes it.

Her lips twitch with amusement at the last, but her nod is serious enough.

"Off-duty is good to know," she comments.

She is, though, still going to write down times and dates of when she enters. Just to keep track.

No harm came from keeping track, and it makes her feel better.

"Yeah." He looks at her for a long moment, clearly trying to formulate what he's going to say. "Hey, do you remember The One?"

"Bits of it."

Mostly, that she was glad that SHIELD didn't have to deal with universe-hopping.

"Yeah," he says. "Uh, the boss said you can... run into people from other universes, here. Close ones, I mean, and people who know that you."

She's not smiling now, not even a little.

"Okay," she says.

And then,

"Alternate versions of yourself?"

Clint tilts his head slightly, as if to watch her better. "He didn't say."

Clint can't see why not, though.

Great.

"Well," she says, deliberately light, "I suppose this place had to have some downsides."

Now she gets to play 'alternate universe or something she doesn't remember'. She loves that game.

"And hopefully if there are mirrorverse versions, they'll be obeying the evil goatee rule."

Sadly, the feminine version (being the catsuit) doesn't quite work.