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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Clint forcibly makes his body language soften, holsters his gun. He's not really tracking with her on the details, but he can recognize defeat when he hears it, and that's worse than impulsiveness for survival. No one should have to deal with it.

"Hey," he says, quietly. "We're okay. Next time, just take the help being offered, okay?

"Are you going to be able to walk to the truck?"

Edited 2013-02-27 00:50 (UTC)

"Yeah." She'll get the fire back, the bit that lets her flirt and run at the mouth and be reckless because she can be here without threat of imminent death, but here, with all these reminders, and the ghost-remnants of Dalek screams still rattling around in her skull, it's hard to pretend. "You can have the next round. Aim for the eyestalks, the rest is too armored or too dead."

"I can do that," he says, still quiet. "Oswin," he says, and waits for her to make eye contact. "Tell me about the book you found. The biting one."

He puts slight pressure on her shoulder, in a come on, let's go back towards the truck indicator, but he's not going to move her or start walking before she's ready.

Edited 2013-02-27 03:50 (UTC)

Oswin is the reigning queen of mental restarts and shuffling away events that just can't be survived or dealt with in a limited amount of time. She isn't so good at re-integrating the information later, but... well. There's always something to aspire to, right?

She turns, a bit mechanically but under her own power, and walks out of the shuttle, her fingers trailing along the fixtures as she passes. Her her life was, once.

"Autor is an idiot, and has re-organized the entire card catalog for the library into some bizarre system he dreamed up that makes no sense. So I was trying to figure it out when I found a book that was labeled 'bitey'." It's a little bit monotone, a little bit rote, but give her a few minutes and she'll bury her lapse as if it didn't happen.

"Well," Clint says, snagging his blazer as they pass it. "You can't fault the guy's accuracy."

He offers the blazer to her. Sometimes extra layers are nice after you've freaked out, at least for him.

"Can." She slides the thin coat over her shoulders without really thinking about it, the scents of an unfamiliar cologne and something smoky disconnecting her a little further from the panic - it's entirely different than the cold, dank smell her brain tries to supply instead. "But that's later. I decided to go look for the book, because how often do you find a bitey book? It sounded like some sort of kid's joke textbook - the Monster Book of Monsters."

Yes, Clint. Her sense of self-preservation is just that worn down.

"... Huh." He opens the passenger door for her, just in case her balance is still off. He leans against the edge of it; while he's watching her, stance and voice calm, his eyes flick regularly to their surroundings. "Do you think people actually read it? Give it a steak for a chapter, that sort of thing."

She side-eyes him, her expression very 'I see what you're doing there and if I didn't feel like I just took every single patch of Energy available on the New New York market all at once and am now going through the crash afterwards I'd give you grief for it', but the effect is somewhat ruined when she starts at the truck's cooling engine ticking at her unexpectedly.

"Someone must read it, it has actual pages, and writing... I'm pretty sure there was writing, it was kind of blurry. What with the biting. You know, it could be some sort of bizarre exercise routine manual." Open it up, and if you aren't ending up with puncture holes, you're doing it right.

It has to be said, though - there's also a little 'thanks for not leaving me there' too, to her expression - she's become accustomed to doing the mental reboot and defrag process on her own and under attack. Not having to deal with either of those two stressors is... nice.

He grins at her side-eye, completely unrepentant.

"Could be," he agrees. "Or maybe it's just to see how stubborn some people can get in trying to read something new." He doesn't close the door, but he lets go so that gravity can bring it close enough for Oswin to do so herself.

When he gets into the driver's side: "You want me to go park this thing, or should we drive around for a bit?"

Milliways is pretty loud, and he doesn't have a good idea about what her stressors are.

She gives the engine beyond the windshield a longing look. She could listen to that thing all day long, and ask for more - it's just so lovely. But the cabin is a notably enclosed place, and the leather seats are just... just enough like the jumpseat she never actually had... it's dangerous. Just a bit too unnerving.

But. But that engine.

"I... guess I should go back upstairs." She doesn't want to. She wants to see what this thing can do, try to convince him to use up the rest of that speed gauge, watch enough that she might be able to do it herself. But she's put him through enough of her grief today.

He glances at her, side-long.

"Sure thing," he says, starting the engine up again. "No reason we can't take it out again, later."

And avoid the spaceship side of the garage.

Yes, so... yes. A brief smile (something like disbelief, something like relief, something like anticipation) slips through her expression - no matter how rattled she is, that sounds like a fantastic idea.

And he's not running. Which she's kind of wondering at, but she's not going to press her good luck. Instead, after securing the safety harness that seems ridiculously ineffective, she does what she does best when unsettled - she fiddles. She has the glove box open in a trice and sorts through the contents - user's manual (oooooh), some sort of weird hammer, a plastic tree (what?) and a handful of loose change of various denominations and sources.

".... Junk box?" Weird.

His best friend is Natasha Romanoff (and most of his others are ex-military, and have been for most of his life). He'll survive a brush with panic.

He glances over at her question, but not long enough to ID the emergency hammer.

"Kinda. The glovebox-- it's for keeping essentials, like your insurance information. And, uh, the tree's an airfreshener."

A glovebox that's not for gloves. Sometimes Earth things are just a little strange. She shrugs at the inconsistency and puts her discoveries away (after sniffing and making a face at the air freshener - she's not entirely sure what that scent is supposed to be, but she's pretty sure she doesn't want to find out), after flicking through the manual briefly.

Well, pausing on a section that catches her eye. She frowns, and almost asks where they could possibly be getting the gasoline from.

(The milk, Oswin. The milk and the eggs for the souffles, where, where did it all come from?)

She decides, abruptly, that she really doesn't want to know, and stuffs the manual back in the glove box with a hurried sort of finality.

"I made pecan strudel this morning. Well, I made a mess, and ended up with something that at least tastes like pecan strudel. If you want some."

"Sure, thanks," he says, with a half grin, still looking forward. He'd feel better if he could keep an eye on her for a bit, anyway, but pecan strudel is great. And Oswin's good people, just a civilian. "I was thinking of grabbing some coffee, anyway."

Decaf, but still.

"You ever think of going pro?" he asks, as he backs into their parking spot. Her food might not be picture-perfect, but that sort of thing comes with practice, right? So far, it's been good.

"Not before. There was too much to see to get tied down to one job. I just liked baking." She shrugs. "Suppose I could now, got loads of time. I think there's someone already doing that here, though."

He drops the keys into the door pocket, and jumps out. He's pretty sure Oswin can handle herself by now, and it's a conveniently easy walk to the elevator from here.

"Yeah? You afraid of a little business competition?" He's grinning at her as he asks it.

She sniffs, using a hip bump (and a sneaky hand because the heavy door very nearly out-weighs her in a straight competition) to shut the truck door.

"I just don't think it would be fair, to the other person." Oswin retorts, summoning the elevator. "It's never nice to put someone out of business."

Of course, she demonstrates quite well that she isn't quite up for a pastry battle royale once she shows off her not-a-pastry of the day, but she does manage to make some pretty good coffee, and is quite proud that she doesn't freak out even a little bit for the rest of the night.

Baby steps. It's all about baby steps.

[OOC: do you think you can fade next tag? You can god-mod talking and coffee if you want, I'll ping if anything doesn't work. Just my Clint voice is petering out by a lot ):. Thank you for thread <3]

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