milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

Why is Clint Barton in the rafters, when he's by all rights way too old and (by some accounts) dignified to climb up there?

Well. He was drinking his morning coffee when some thing touched the back of his foot with a long tendril, and all he saw was its weird misshapen form skittering away.

It was weird, okay? Anyway. He's sitting on a rafter, watching the room below, with a mug of coffee in his hands and a jar of peanuts next to him.

[tiny tag: creepy doll
ooc: No new threads, unless we've talked about it :)! I'll be around this weekend, but I am at this point Friday asleep.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He looks across the room, but it only take barely to a handful of seconds to spot what it is. Focus tunneling even without losing the rest. He wouldn't say this place hands out reasons to trust itself. Especially when he's pretty sure that thing should not be labeled in the realm of toy.

Darting here and there, leaving a half doze shrieks in its way. Definitely looks like a toy. Definitely nothing else about it is.
"Anyone tried just shooting them yet?" Steve pitches his voice to be heard, even though he hasn't looked away.

He's not certain he'd care if it came near him. He's picky about the things that get to touch him.

Plus, he's far not that picky about how long he sits in a hold for a hole in something.

Clint considers everything, particularly the fact that the dolls haven't done anything except be terrifying, then moves the yard back over to the wall, and climbs down.

He moves pretty efficiently, for a guy his age. His left leg's a little stiff, and he's not going to win any style awards, but it works.

"Not while I've been here," he says, once he's ground-level. "But one kid's completely dissected one, and it's still moving."

He extends a hand, once he's close enough. "Clint Barton."

It is odd. Even for this place. But disgusting and disturbing are words saved for truly worthy things. Most of which don't involve a room with this many civilians. Not even when there are intermittent shrieks keeping the muscles right between his shoulder blades and up to the base of his neck just this side of tighter than normal.

Steve reached out and shook the man's hand. "McGarrett." It comes first, because it's habit, too. With a certain kind of people. Winded and little rustier in his head than he likes contemplating, especially when it comes out of his mouth so easy as the more recognizable part of over a decade. Followed by, "Steve."

It all fits the piece on his hip, but it's still leaning to match the badge in front of it. His partner may be sure it never will.

Clint's carrying, too, though his holster's currently hidden by the jacket he's wearing. Not too concealed -- Steve probably caught sight of it while he was climbing down.

"Cop?" he asks, dropping into the seat across from him, angled outward towards the bar. He's not really watching Steve, but he thinks that's pretty understandable given the givens.

There's a rueful tug of his mouth, dragging up into his cheek, adding a spark to his hazel eyes. Because Danny would sputter up a damn storm in this second he holds. About how he isn't a cop, never could be a cop, wouldn't know what a cop's job was, or how to follow the rules, if it hit him in the face. Like it isn't for about eight to fifteen hours a day, every day, right now.

"Navy Special Operations." Phrased that way to check at whether he knows what it might lean on, or to. Whether he's military with that look. The way he moves. The gun. Because Steve might be classified over legally as a cop, but he's a SEAL. Through and through. Every thought and choice, especially in the unending restless want for the next case. Next missions. Real ones. Back in the field. "Presently, heading up a special Task Force for the governor of Hawaii."

"And you're--?" Because he either is or, at some point, was. Steve is seventy percent certain about that much. If not what.

Edited 2013-06-28 05:16 (UTC)

Clint gives Steve an interested look, at Navy Special Operations. His head's not fully turned towards him, but he doesn't turn away through his explanation.

"Not a cop," Clint answers, and smiles. "I'm a security consultant, these days. Served with the 75th from 88 through 93."

Technically into 94, if you take into account how long it took his medical discharge paperwork to come through, but 93 feels truer.

"Rangers." There's a huff sort of easy respectful acknowledgement, more than surprise or awe, and that single, clipped nod to, again. Not one of the branches or names Ellen had listed. Which meant there could be more she didn't know about.

Steve's eyes keep returning to the location of the Toys Clint had pointed out minutes ago. Now that he was looking for them, it was easy to note that the one doll was not alone either. "Anyone have an idea how this all got started?" Horror movie children's toys and all.

"Not a clue. They're trying to scare people, so I figure it's either fear magic or the first part of larger plan."

Steve's still not really on board with how easy this place references and labels things magic. That'll take a while.
"Have they hurt anyone?" It's the sensible first important thing between them and his question about shooting them.

Because what he's seeing right now is mostly the oddest, scare tactic with twisted children's toys.
Which would be pests. But might not a shooting offense. At least until one tries him.

Clint hasn't actually seriously considered shooting them with a gun, so he doesn't realize it's in Steve's potential reactions. The toys are for the most part fabric, and there're too many civilians and not enough backstops for him to be comfortable firing in here.

With an arrow, sure. Blunt arrow heads can do a lot of damage, but lose their velocity pretty fast.

Clint shakes his head. "That's why I came down," he says. "I was gathering intel in case I saw X -- one of the security people." And finishing his morning coffee. Equally important.

There's a short look. Slow, still scoping the area well enough. They stand out once you're looking for them. Thinking about the comment about magic only slightly earlier, so easily made, he does hazard against it one other thing. Perhaps, because of the lack of actual shock or freaking out going on in the room.

Aside from certain cases. "And it's just normal." Random bursts of some magical insanity.

Collecting information for the security group that was about these parts somewhere. If anything, that the weirder one.

"It's pretty damn weird."

Clint's pause very clearly him trying to gather the words for some thought. "People can only be surprised so many times before they just... stop. It's rare for trouble here to get you killed."

Steve's pretty sure that is the norm. The pretty damn weird. In someways it'll never be near normal, but in the ways that count, it's a whole lot more beige and calm than his last fifteen years. Just like Hawaii and Five-0. Different, but nowhere near as severe.

"Different faces on the same kinds of scare tactics?" He could be all that surprised about it, or about them not being it.

Clint tilts his head. "Close. Usually it's less scare tactics and more... the fallout of spending time in a magic bar, from what I've seen. I haven't been visiting that long."

"Unavoidable side-effect," Steve supposed.

Though the idea of the bar leaking magic and these things just happening simply as a result of being here.
"I haven't either." There's the slide of a side glance. "It's been only a few months for me and my partner."

Clint nods. He can't, from the way Steve says 'partner,' pin down the context he means it in. Current evidence suggests his partner in the taskforce.

"Same for me, from my standpoint. It's gone from mid-winter to mid-summer, here."

He shrugs, slight and unbothered.

"I think it's been longer here, but back home it's only been about half a year. Not that you could tell by the weather."

It's easy to judge the bench marker, since he's only been back six or seven months himself. He still plays with whether it should be 'been home' but it's been a long time. The kind of long time that makes six months look like absently misplaced pocket lint.

The kind of long time that if he left tomorrow he really wouldn't count this half year as anything in the books.

He half-grins. "San Diego changes a little more. You from Hawai'i originally?"

"Born and bred," Steve said, with more pride than in much other than his work so far.

"My family's three generations Navy out of there." Not that the idea of making that a fourth has ever taken root. Having a child is not something you usually consider when you're in black, redacted ninety-eight percent of the year, and the other two percent people are mandating you take vacation days off this time or heal from broken bones and the like.

Clint makes a considering face, and nods, glancing down to his hands, and back up.

"I've never been outside of work," he admits, somewhere between wry and regretful. His tone and intent match up -- it's been the sort of work you do in offices (and don't bring your rifle for).

(... Primarily prepping for work you do bring your rifle for. Paperwork and planning in Hawai'i with no allotted free time should be a violation of business ethics.)

That's an interested sort of of phrase, especially with what he said he used to be. Steve slid his glance that way, without losing sight on the toys. "Yeah?"

"People need security consulting just about anywhere." Clint shrugs.

"So I've heard." It's what a lot of the boys got out and into once retiring. Kicked around, getting to do the job, bring in money and still not leave the lifestyle. "Got a handful of old teammates who went that way."

The kind of thing Steve might have considered if he'd ever considered leaving the SEALS. But he'd honestly been of the opinion for over a decade they only way he'd ever leave the SEALS was in a body bag or by a mandated order of retirement whenever that first physical showed an error too big to be counted as one of the sharpest elite even of the elite any longer.

[ooc: good place to fade? Clint would be asking after what they do, etc., and I don't know much about the security industry.]

[Sure! At your leisure for ease and fun!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only