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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.]

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"Hey." Clint grins at him. Though that reminds him his dismount from the rafters is going to be kind of hilarious.

Oh well.

"What's up?" Is Dick older? He looks kind of older. Clint's not sure, though; he's kind of bad at guessing ages.

He's a few weeks and the death of his parents older. That probably counts, right?

Though the question does require more of an answer than Dick really wants to say given his mood.

He shrugs.

"Nothing. How're you?"

"Not too comfortable with these weird toys existing," Clint admits. "You know where they came from?"

Edited 2013-06-29 04:06 (UTC)

Dick puts his weight onto his hands at the edge of the rafter in order to lean over and look down for one of the toys in question.

"Nnnnope," he says. "Is it like the songs? They're here and soon they won't be?"

It takes Clint a moment to place what Dick's talking about, then he remembers the thing with the song that was chasing Oswin around. "If we're lucky."

He knocks Dick's closest elbow with his knuckles, and points to a Furby underneath a barstool, having a staredown with a couple of the waitrats. It looks like the Furby's winning.

Dick looks at Clint when he's knocked, and follows his pointing finger down to the Furby.

And scowls.

"That's kind of weird."

Clint grins. "And why I'm up here. One with spider parts brushed the back of my leg before I'd finished my morning coffee."

He's dressed in business casual, but that's because he'd forgone his morning coffee in the rush to get to work on time. It was a long night.

"Does your world have magic?"

"Uh huh."

Know what's weird? That some worlds don't have magic.

"Does yours?"

"I would've said no this time last year," Clint says, after a long moment. "I don't know about any, but it wouldn't surprise me."

Dick glances up at him now, surprised by the answer. He folds himself back up so he's sitting on the rafter.

"Why, what's happened?"

"Aliens," Clint says, and laughs. "Right in the middle of nowhere. One of them comes here -- Thor."

"We have them, too," says Dick.

"Least, I think we do. I heard somewhere that Superman's an alien."

...

"You mean the guy with the tights and the cap and the giant S on his shirt?"

"Yeah," Dick says. "Him."

"Huh." Clint turns to give him a better look. "He's in comics and movies, in my world."

He's kind of, in Clint's opinion, an alien Captain America knock-off.

Dick looks back at him.

"Can you get toys? He's got toys in my world."

"Yeah, probably. Action figures."

... He looks back at the room, with the sudden curiosity. He doesn't see any action figures, though -- at least not right now.

"Do you guys have Captain America?"

"No."

Captain America is a stupid sounding name, FYI.

"We used to have the Justice Society of America. Years ago."

"I don't think I've heard of them." Pause. He's not sure if Superman's the one dating that badass reporter, Lucy or whoever, but it seems rude to ask. Given the guy's real.

"Captain America died back in the 40s. We don't have any other real superheroes."

"That don't sound too good," Dick says. "Who you got fighting the aliens?"

"We don't," he says. "It was an internal dispute, far as we can tell, and they cleared it up themselves."

Destroying a small town in the process.

If he doesn't sound too enthused by this, he isn't. There's only so far persistence and superior numbers can get you in the face of advanced weaponry and alien gods. No one said the Asgardians weren't coming back.

Dick frowns at him.

He's only eleven years old, but he can think of a few ways in which 'they cleared it up themselves' is an inadequate answer to that question.

Clint grimaces slightly, and shrugs. It's not something anyone's happy about, but he's not going to try to get into a discussion about options available with Dick.

"Are superheroes basically treated like celebrities?" Because if so, Tony Stark might count.

Dick considers the question thoughtfully.

"Superman is. And some others, I guess? Like Flash. Some aren't, really. They just do their thing."

"Sounds like a sweet gig," is what he says, instead. "We do have one guy who kind of makes himself out to be a superhero, but he's just a vigilante."

Clint's not really sure what the difference is, but he wouldn't ask for Stark's autograph. Maybe that's the difference.