thecapitol | open;

Entry tags:

open;

Who| Clint and OPEN
What| Training, a little bit of stress relief, and a whole lot of anger.
Where| The training area
When| Day after the crowning.
Warnings/Notes| Violence, profanity, anger issues? Idk, anything else will be added

The thing is, Clint had held himself together for so long. It's been weeks since Natasha died, out of sight and reach, gone before he could have done anything. Sam had told him, eventually, once he emerged from the caves with blood on his hands and the screaming of his dead family and friends ringing in his ears. He'd looked for her, before, and then hoped she'd be waiting for him with a quip and a smile.

Instead, her room was empty, cleaned out after the death of a tribute.

It stuck him to the core, but he'd moved forward by sheer will, angry and lost. And then the Crowning had happened. Clint had drunk far too much, but it hadn't curbed the anger Jason had incited in him, the violence he'd needed to get out before he did something he regretted. So Clint had woken up -- or rather, he hadn't so much slept as crashed -- and he'd dragged himself to the training area. Here, he doesn't bother with the survival skill areas, heading right over to the weapons. The bow is weighted differently than his own, back home, but it's been long enough that he's learned it anyway. So he runs and tumbles and shoots, drawing arrow after arrow after arrow, until his quiver is empty and the targets are filled with kill shots.

But it's not enough. So he picks up, sets bow and quiver aside, grabs one of the swords and spins it. Here, Clint attacks a dummy with rusty movements, cursing at the forgotten body movements. It's been too long, he's more than rusty.

Eventually though, should someone come by after both of these, he's delved to hand-to-punching bag. He needs the feel of something beneath his fists, anger bleeding out with each hit. It doesn't compare to the real thing, though, so eventually he'll strike out to find the nearest person.

"You mind a spar?"

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"Mmm?"

A woman who was lifting weights looks away from her work when Clint speaks to her. She looks him up and down, then puts the weights away. "Very well. Would you prefer hand to hand or with weapons?"

She's wearing the white scarf she always wears, but it's not a good idea to have something around her neck during a sparring match. She slowly takes it off, folding it in her lap and putting it in her pocket, revealing a knotted scar going all the way around her neck. It's ugly and thin, possibly made by someone using a wire to try strangling her or cutting her throat.

There's something familiar about her features, the curve of her face. Something that says he knows her from somewhere -- or should. Clint's gaze is sharp and intent, even if he doesn't entirely let on to the fact that he's scoping her out. In any case, something relaxes in his shoulders as she agrees, and his mouth kicks up at the edge of a smile, tempers just as quickly.

"Hand-to-hand." He steps back, moves to the ring. And oh, that's a familiar scar. Or at least, it's cause is easy to understand. His gaze flicks down, and then back up, nonjudgmental, but certainly reevaluating. "If you need to stop, word's 'Fury'. Otherwise, any limits?"

'Fury' is an odd safety word, but that just makes it the best kind. She's sure he's scoping her out, if only because she's an opponent and a mentor for another district. It's only the smart thing to do when faced with an unknown force.

She also notices where his eyes go. That's okay. She expected it. At least he doesn't stare. "No strikes to the eyes. Otherwise, let's just try to avoid putting someone in the hospital."

She goes to the ring and takes a defensive stance with a small smile. "Let's start." She waits for him to go first. She intends play dirty and aim for his joints. He's bigger than her, and she doesn't mind using dirty tricks to take down bigger opponents.

Peggy has been training ever since her win in the arena, if only because it was the only she could calm the overwhelming sense of despair and a loss of control. Exercise, martial arts, weapons, ripping her body apart with exertion--it's all a way to cope, and so she's gotten very good at it.

She's a mentor, which means she survived a Game all on her own. Which really just means he won't underestimate her, even if he wouldn't have in the first place. His partner was a woman, small and delicate and far more deadly than most full-grown men. Clint won't make the mistake of underestimating someone simply because of the way they look.

Besides, she moves like a seasoned fighter. Even if he had judged her, that would have tipped him off. Clint's mouth curves in a smile of his own, even if it doesn't quite meet his eyes. There's a ferocity there, muted grief hidden beneath it all. This is Peggy's way of coping, and its Clint's too; they're two peas in a pod in this.

So Clint nods to her terms, they're limits he can work with, and slides into his own stance, solidly balanced, gaze impossibly sharp as he picks her apart. Circles, idly, and strikes out with a fist aimed to her torso, fast but not as fast as he could. He's testing.

Peggy isn't one to test her opponents. Peggy had always been a scrappy kid and thus gotten into fights when she was little, but her debut into true violence had been the Hunger Games. In the classic Games, there are no tests, there are no hesitations. There is kill or be killed. Some instincts don't leave, especially when they're ingrained so early on.

So when he lashes out, she immediately sidesteps, moving to catch his arm and punch him right above the elbow in hopes of momentarily disabling it. Her movements are quick, the sort that come from a person who didn't learn to kill for hire, but for survival.

Once upon a time, Clint had been just the same. A scrappy kid, fighting his way through orphanages and foster homes before finally running away and finding a place among the circus. Not that that wound up the best place for him, not after a few years. But he's had decades since there, training to sand down the rough edges of his fighting.

And, well, its not like Clint doesn't realize she's not messing around. Nearly immediately he's twisting his arm in her hold. He grabs her and yanks hard, hoping to pull her off balance. Even as he's moving, he's reacting, fist aimed to her jaw.

She's prepared for him to pull at her, so she keeps her balance, but she can't avoid his fist. Instead of trying to wiggle away from him, she turns her head so his fist glances against her jaw rather than hits it directly. She's a fighter who's used to dealing with some pain to get to what she wants.

She uses her new position to try sliding one leg between his, attempting to hook his knee and force it to buckle.

Good reactions, good instincts. A wary sort of respect is kindling in his blood, but it mostly means Clint isn't going to hold back at all. Her leg slides between his, forces him to buckle, going to one knee. But Clint drags her down with him, a hand fisting in her hair to yank her head back and force her away.

He's not off balance for very long anyway, shoving her back and sliding away, reevaluating as he goes. The look in his eyes is dangerous, a sniper's focus sharp upon her.

"Huh?"

This is not the first time Gary has been pulled aside on his way through the Training Center and asked to do something he's woefully unprepared for, and he's starting to think that it's not going to stop any time soon. At least this time he's not nearly so alarmed by the proposition--helped, perhaps, by the fact that Clint isn't pointing a weapon at him, perhaps by his more casual nature. Either way, Gary is quick this time to put aside any doubts about his inexperience and instead paints on a cheerful, encouraging smile.

"Oh--yeah! No problem." The teen stuffs his earbuds in the pocket of his jogging shorts. He looks fit and energetic in spite of having only just gotten off the treadmills and is dressed the part. Venus has pointed Gary in the direction of some very comfy clothing brands. "What'dya have in mind? Rounds? Whoever falls over first? Montages?"

Clint wouldn't have picked Gary as his first choice. The truth is this: Clint's an assassin. He's used to sparring with Natasha, and those spars are usually mere moments away from full-blown fight to the deaths. He doesn't pull punches, he doesn't resist fighting dirty, and even here, that's not always the norm.

So many of the people are not suited for this life. Clint's grateful he has the experience, but it doesn't mean he likes killing innocents. Sparring gives him an edge, a way to gather intel and figure out skills. So yeah, it's more than a little bit useful. But here, with Gary popping out his headphones and stuffing them in his pockets, Clint's well aware of how young he is. Doesn't mean as much to him -- he was fighting long before.

He still laughs, soft under his breath, and tips his head to the side.

"Rounds work for me." He doesn't say that he's not expecting many. As far as he knows, its not a fair fight at all.

Gary has no idea what he's in for, apart from that it's probably going to surprise him and he is not prepared. But that's almost the best part for him--the thrill, the suspense, the numb shock of adrenaline as the world rapidly spirals out of his control, he lives for that. Granted he doesn't feel this nearly as sharply as he did when he had his abilities, but that doesn't stop him from seeking it out, perhaps even more fervently to make up for the disparity and his growing complacency with the Capitol's attractions.

He can't promise himself that this won't come back to bite him in the ass. Should be worth it, though!

Boxing isn't part of Gary's immediate field of interest, so he has no idea what the normal rules are for round numbers and lengths. "Best of five?" he offers, because that sounds like a nice number to settle on, while he cracks his knuckles and bounces between his feet. Are they just gonna throw down here? Clint knows what he's doing, Gary assumes, so he'll take his lead.

Gary is definitely going to be in for a rude awakening, but that's fine. Clint wouldn't be all that surprised.

"Yeah, that'll work."

Clint shifts, steady and stable upon his feet, hands coming up in a loose stance. His gaze sweeps Gary head to toe, carefully, not really picking up on anything new. And while Clint is usually patient, he's also a not typically stuck in this mess of emotions, spoiling for a fight. He lunges forward, weight easy upon one foot as he aims a kick at the back of Gary's knees. It's an easy first move, but Clint's damn fast, even holding out as he is. The first fight is all a means to test the water, after all.

It's also a bit unfortunate that Clint plays dirty, even if that's maybe not apparent from the get go.

"Good," Gary responds with a chipper nod. "So is there a mat for this, or--!"

As predicted, Gary has no idea that Clint is going to play dirty. He lunges forward and instinctively Gary raises his arms to block a punch (and he is very quick about it, all things considered), but obviously this does nothing to stop a kick to the knees. He yelps in surprise and slumps down on one leg, catching himself just before he falls face-first into the floor; his eyes, wide with alarm and confusion, snap up to track Clint's movements a second later. At least Gary is poised to try and duck the next attack if one is on its way.

Kid's quick, its true. Its a good surprise, but not one that really helps him, since Gary clearly doesn't really know how to read a body. If he had, Clint would have upped his game, slid out of reach and moved again, sharp and quick. Instead he rolls back, footing stable, and swings a fist at Gary's head.

It's a diversion, of course, because not even a second later he catches Gary behind the bend of his knee, tossing him on his back with a quick move. Drops to a knee and pins him with a forearm against the column of his throat. Not enough to cut off his air, but enough to make the sip of breath harder for a moment.

There's a pause, Clint looking down at Gary with brow raised, before he pulls back, easily getting to his feet.

Instinctively Gary ducks the punch, as he was hoping to do. This is a small victory for him. He was caught unawares the first time, but he's totally getting his stride now, he can just--well, no, never mind, there goes his other knee. Gary falls back with a soft oof and then ceases to make any more noise because there's an arm digging into his neck and he's afraid to breathe. He lies there, motionless and staring ahead in shock, for several moments after Clint lets him go.

"...Jesus." Gary huffs a small cough, gently rubbing his throat as he hauls himself standing. Knees are a little wobbly after so much abuse, but he can feel the adrenaline starting to kick in, too. Adrenaline, his old friend. Gary can't call on it like he used to, but he recognizes that kick in his heart and the anxious tingling in his limbs, and that's enough to fill him with an enthusiastic sort of confidence.

His face breaks into a cautious grin. "All right, hotshot. Next round."

Well, at least he ducked the punch. Clint would have been very disappointed if he hadn't, and the fight had ended so soon. Not that it lasts very much longer, anyway. The thud of Gary's pulse quick like a rabbit beneath the bar of his arm is grounding, has Clint leaning back on his haunches, amused at the sheer shock in Gary's expression for a few long moments.

He waits, patience itching beneath his skin, for Gary to clamber up to his feet, approving at the fact that the kid doesn't wait for him to offer a hand. Or expect it, really. Maybe there's some hope for him yet. Clint's mouth curves in response to that grin, faint.

"Try to make it a challenge." And okay, yeah, he's just being an asshole. But the humor is a good sign, enough that he's come back to himself.

Gary's grin grows wider and more confident. That's more like it! Never mind that he's hopelessly out of his league--the adrenaline pulses and competition calls a sweet melody in his ears, and suddenly it doesn't really matter anymore. Gary is prepared to have some fun with this.

"Alright, old man," he smirks, angling into a slight crouch. "Don't feel sorry for asking."

He allows only a slight pause after his taunt for Clint to prepare. Then Gary lunges ahead, blisteringly quick, aiming for a midriff tackle.

That grin, hell yes that grin is exactly what Clint wanted. It means Gary is getting serious, throwing himself into the fight. Clint's still fighting angry, and he doesn't hold back much, but he's glad now that this isn't as helpless as before. He huffs with laughter at Gary's response, shifting on his feet, readying himself for the next round.

Doesn't mean he is, though.

"Shit--" Clint throws himself out of the way, startled by how fast that was, but Clint catches himself and sweeps low, aiming to knock Gary's legs out from underneath him.

Aside from the explosive start, Gary did not come into this second round with a plan for how to follow through. It's something of a weakness of his. Agree to a fight, don't think about how to win it--aim an attack, don't consider the next. Gary operates on pure instinct for these sorts of things. This works best when he has the reflexes to back it up. When he doesn't, most of the time Gary ends up getting his legs kicked out from underneath him.

This is one of those times. Sure, he anticipates another kick based on experience from the first round, but Gary's recovery at having missed the tackle means he's on his knees and already unprepared. He collapses flat on his stomach.

A serious fight might be a bit too much to ask for.

Thing is, Clint knows how to deal with fast fighters. Natasha is the best of all of them, and he's spent years learning to fight with her. Gary doesn't stand a chance. Clint's fully capable of being a variable fighter, of using gymnast grace, speed, impossible reflexes. But he's also capable of being steady and still, of hitting hard one, twice, ending the fight quick because the person he's up against is quicker than he is. Clint can read a fight like a chess-master can read a board.

And Gary, for all his speed, doesn't think things through. This is the easiest kind of fight, especially given that Gary has no weapons beyond his own body to use.

Clint's body drops out of its stance, and he walks over, holds out a hand for Gary to lever himself up off the floor. Endlessly patient despite the rage still in his veins and the fight they're in. This is, of course, a trick.

It's a trick that Gary doesn't see. He's painfully oblivious on top of being impulsive; Clint's simmering anger, which should be obvious in how he hits hard and doesn't relent despite Gary's inexperience, goes completely over his head, as does the fact that he's previously fought dirty. This is a friendly, albeit physically stressful game to him. A hand is a hand. Clambering to his knees, Gary reaches out to take it.

"Thanks," he croaks. This should be the part where he decides he's horribly outmatched and should stop. He does not. "One more. I've got this."

They've been around each other more often after this last arena - even if they don't really mention the part of the why that includes what'd happened in the back alley when they were way too drunk. The baby bird they're looking after makes a much easier excuse, especially since Sam is still blaming its existence on Clint.

The bird's carrier is tucked under one of Sam's arms at the moment, but it isn't completely why he's off in search of Clint. Nah, that's because Sam'd actually looked at his some of his fanmail today, and he'd found an interesting couple of t-shirts. They're draped over his other arm as he hunts Clint down to show him - he's pretty sure they can both use a chuckle.

But that changes a little when he finds Clint in the training area, clearly hell bent on getting some of his anger out.

Instead, he drops the pile of fabric on a table, carefully setting Tiny Bird's carrier down next to it.

"Well, I was just gonna tell you that he was missing you, but hell, why not. Been a few days since someone tried to kick my ass."

They don't have to say why, but the truth of the matter is that Clint trusts Sam. Its a sudden epiphany of a thing, he hadn't even realized until far too late, and he was already stuck in Sam's hold. It's okay though, even if Sam takes it to mean he can blame Clint for adopting baby birds. Which, okay yeah it is his fault.

So Sam gets a grin, wild and haphazard, but its easier now. Only a little bit. He's still thrumming with anger, with a vicious need for retribution, guilt and hurt churning just beneath the surface. Sam makes it better, because he knows how to joke around it all, makes Clint step back and relax.

"Of course he was missing me, I'm clearly the favorite parent." He snarks, rounding over to meet Sam, eyeing the fabric curiously before making a little chirruping sound at their bird. It gets a reply, and that, out of everything, eases the tense set of his shoulders. They make sure the carrier will be fine, and then he reaches out, raps his knuckles against Sam's shoulder.

"Now get over here, show me what you've got, Wilson."

It's maybe a bad idea, agreeing to spar with Clint when he's angry like this. As much as Sam trusts him, likes him, and even knows him on a pretty deep level now - their friendship is still pretty damn new. Some people can't spar angry, some people can, but Sam isn't sure which one Clint is just yet.

But he does trust Clint. And he feels a little bit better about his immediate agreement when the joke makes Clint relax a little - and even more when he chirps at the bird.

There's a small surge of affection there, watching Clint make bird noises at the little purple ball of fluff, and Sam's eyes soften a little at it. It doesn't stop him from following up with his own, totally more accurate sounding chirp, though.

"You sure you can handle it, Barton?" he teases, smile a challange as he circles around him on the mat. "No snow here to break your fall."

Potentially an awful idea, its true. But Clint has a good amount of self control, and he's well aware that Sam isn't Natasha, whom he's used to fighting in vicious, no holds bared brawls. Less spar, and more mere steps from fighting for your life.

As angry as he still is, he still holds tight to that fraying control. He'd once told a young Natasha it was the only difference in the world, and he still believes that. Plus, he likes Sam a whole lot. Trusts him, even in the short span of time they've known each other. And really, Sam just proves that when he chirps right alongside Clint, even if there's a hint of challenge there. The still unnamed bird chirps, plaintively, and Clint can't help the fond little curve tempering his grin.

His eyes still light up though, the challenge more than welcomed, and shifts with Sam's movements.

"Guess I'll just have to fall on you, then."

He croons, feet planted firmly upon the ground, ready to defend his position. But he's pretty fast, and there's a lot to be said for an early life's training in acrobatics for getting someone to move. A part of him wants to show off.

As much as Sam jokes about blaming Clint for the bird’s existence in their lives, it was a good idea. Having her around tempers both of them, gives them something to focus on - something that isn’t fighting and death and survival, anyway. She’s doing them both good, and Sam likes having her around.

He likes having Clint around, too, but that part’s probably obviously.

“Lucky for you I’m pretty damn good at breaking people’s falls,” he replies, adding just a little bit of flirting into that challenge.

The way Sam moves on the ground is vastly different from the way he moves in the air. When he’s flying - he’s a gymnast. It’s all rolls and tucks and drops and weaves, wings on and off and freefalls and catching himself as he calculates and maneuvers in the blink of an eye.

On the ground, Sam is solid. There’s a quiet energy around him, a determination and confidence in his movements even when he’s slower, when he’s making the adjustments to moving on a single plane instead of a three dimensional space. He’s still making calculations as he moves, they’re just a very different kind.

And right now? Right now he wants to have fun, so there’s a playful grin on his face as he stops circling. “Getting old here, man.”

She's one of the best things that's come out of this damn place, all told. Sam ranks pretty high up there too, though Clint won't say it. Doesn't have to, really. But its nice, having Sam alongside him as they co-parent this purple ball of fluff.

Clint's seen Sam fight before, but it never fails to catch Clint's attention. The little bit of flirting is almost inevitable, a staple to their talks these days. It's good, humanizing, keeps him grounded, focused more on Sam's warm voice and his grin instead of the hollow aching grief in his chest. His gaze tracks slowly down, head to toe, mouth curling with a smug smile.

Sam's a steady fighter, slow and calculating and solid, it's a difference to the quicksilver of Natasha, hell, even his own fighting style contrasts sharply. Which really just means its pure fun, pitting his looser, half-steady, half-acrobatic, stance against the other.

"Then stop messing around."

He sing-songs, sweeping low as if to knock Sam's legs out from under him.

He ain't knowing what's being more damn sad. That he recognizes the look on Clint-- what all it's meaning for what's going up on the ins-- or that he's been able to do since well before coming to this point now.

Brother's archery is better than that of some archeradicators he's seen. Swordsmanship ain't entirely horrible. Yet either way, it's like watching a hivestem burn and hearing the screams. Motherfucker can't not watch that shit.

Maybe he should've done so from further all away. He straightens out, rising to full height.

"Heh. AIGHT. But a motherfucker ought be minding, a bit off-edge, me." Avoxing the fight out of a person did that, but he thinks he can call the old laughsassin in him up and out enough for something non-lethal.

He's feeling vaguely like a house on fire, honestly. Or, maybe, like he wants to set a house on fire. Either work in this situation.

So maybe Initiate should have watched from a distance, but the truth is, Clint could have spotted him watching irregardless. His vision is sharp, nearly impossible, and its not too hard to spot a troll watching him. The second Initiate straightens out, Clint's gaze is sweeping over him, taking in as much clues as can be. Not as much as could be, not till they start their little spar, but its enough for now.

Clint's head cocks, brow lifted, curious and steely-eyed. It takes a second to parse through, but once he does, Clint's mouth curls in a sharp grin, all teeth and challenge. He rocks back on his heel, light and loose and entirely too ready for a fight.

"Fine by me," Shifts on his heel, "Hand-to-hand?"

Really, how could any motherfucker ever go wrong with living by both? That would be his oh so professional opinion.

Brother smiles like a troll. Brother smiles like he's ready on for tearing motherfuckers' throats out with his teeth. He recognizes that look. He's worn it.

He takes the moment to breathe deep. Rage was never so far he couldn't reach it. He always fought better with it. He exhales with a half-grin, then falls into matching Clint whatever all way he can.

"METACARPAL TO MOTHERFUCKING METACARPAL UNCLAWED," He agrees.

There's something to be said about facing down a grin filled with those sharp teeth. It edges up his spine, gilded with ice, but Clint's not afraid. Maybe that's foolish of him, but he's lived a long life of near death situations, he's dealt with far worse than a spar with a troll.

Besides, he asked for this.

Even if shit, that answer isn't exactly what he expected to hear. Clint cocks his head, grin widening a bit in something quite like approval. His body falls easily into a stance, loose, but steady, picking apart every little move. He doesn't bother responding, either, just lashes out, a fist toward the ribs.

The Initiate doesn't believe in a total lack of fear. Only the dead had ever escaped his grasp, souls having passed beyond him. The dead and these motherfuckers here, where the voodoo was stolen from him. But then, half these ninjas have gone dying too.

What he does believe in is motherfuckers what can face it. Or who already up and have.

The little grin of approval is just as good as hearing a 'go'. He's got a punch swung at his ribs so his next step is to angle himself, grab hold of the wrist with the far arm and pull forward, past him, as the other hand forms a fist of his own toward's clint's face.

But he's gotta remember, it's a balance. No claws, don't cut him up. No highblood strength, don't crush the bones. Don't hurt a Tribute-- just a little bit of hurt. Swing back for the next round.

Fear keeps a person sharp, keeps them alive. Of course, Clint mostly relies on the instincts writ deep within him, the knowledge and skill in his muscle, tactics curling in his mind. He's just a normal guy, he doesn't have powers to rely on, and when fighting those who do, he's got to be on his toes.

Doesn't mean he doesn't sing with adrenaline, and the rush that comes from this.

So Clint leans back, instinctively, back bowed with an acrobat's grace, wrist twisting in Initiate's hold. He breaks the hold on his wrist, catches Initiate's forearm, and pushes himself up, uses the Initiate's weight against him as he yanks him off balance. It's a cheat, but he doesn't care. Just throws at elbow at the kidneys, quicksilver. Can't stop the gleam in his eyes and the sharp biting grin that curls on his face.

Edited (fuckin horns) 2015-05-15 06:01 (UTC)

He'd be real pleased to know Clint thought that way. Very few people ever seemed to grasp that critical bit. It was refreshing.

Opposite in feeling of those quick jabs. Those bring a grit-toothed wince, but one that's shown through a grin.

So that's how a motherfucker wanted at to play? Well Clint ain't the only motherfucking acrobat. He falls on a hand but the rest goes up, a leg swinging around to deliver a sharp kick, then a shove off the ground to get himself back in place.

You don't live the life he's had without learning how to savor the fight, savor the fear. There was a time when Clint would have said fighting was all he was good at, and honestly, he's not that far removed from it. Working as an assassin for SHIELD simply meant he got some benefits, it didn't change the nature of his work.

He's too close not to be hit by that kick, but that doesn't mean he can't lessen the damage. It connects, hard, even as Clint backs up, and he grits his teeth even as the Initiate shoves himself up onto his feet. Clint's reevaluating, thinking as he moves. A part of him misses the feeling of knives in hand, even if this fight isn't in the Arena, isn't meant to be much more than a way to let loose some stress.

Instead, he settles his weight solidly, launches forward again. There's something vicious in the way he throws a punch, sternum this time, and if that connects, if Initiate doubles over, he'll aim again at the throat. Quick, quick.

Shot to the throat. That's a rare thought there, but it passes; this brother would've done well up on the beaches, dealing the threats of the shores, the seadwellers all so much more powerful but in the special spot where everything feel weak and full of feeling. He tastes gill in his teeth.

He's not a quick fucking fight. Not motherfucking ever is he going to go down so damn easy. Don't hurt- fuck that. Fuck that noise.

The hit connects, but he doesn't go down. There's only a cough as warning and he's ducking to the side, ramming an elbow at the motherfucker's ribs before steadying at his back, ready to throw another punch.

"Sure," Shepard likes Clint, if she's honest. Not much, because she's only ever seen him at his worst, but he's a wise-ass and a sharpshooter, and he's goodnatured underneath that thick layer of mystery and trauma, which is always an easy way into her heart, "But it'll cost you."

It's like seeing a bruise with a familiar shape, knowing without knowing how you know, that if you put your hand over it, each of your fingers would line up exactly. Been around the block a few times, she has, and she knows the lines by heart.

"Teach me how to use one of those things," Jane jerks her chin in the direction of the archery equipment, "Sound fair?"

The truth is, Clint doesn't have much of an opinion on Shepard one way or the other. He's seen her around, of course, and he got a few items last Arena. But over all? Clint thinks Shepard's probably competent, but the rest of it is a blank page. So she eyes him, something familiar in the light of her gaze, the lines of her body.

Clint tips his head, a faint gesture for her to go on, and can't help the bite of laughter that escapes him at her terms.

"Yeah, sounds fair." He straightens, his smile still faintly sharp.

The laugh is a good-- or, very bad sign. Like a crack in the ice, it depends mostly on whether you're standing out over the water, or on the shore. Her return is more sly than knowing, just a slow quirk at the corner of her mouth, barely even there.

"Alright, then. Let's do it."

Its a little bit of both, really. He's never been the most stable of people, it was always a surprise -- well, let's just say it was a surprise he's stayed alive this long and in mostly one piece. After Loki, he'd fractured, and it'd only been swift vengeance and Natasha's understanding at his side that kept him from falling apart entirely. Here, with her and his family gone, it's much harder to keep together.

So yeah, maybe its a bad sign. Clint sets the bow aside, easily, and then pads right back over. Settling in a steady stance, gaze sharp and calculating.

Shepard didn't fool herself to think she was on par with a real hand to hand specialist, but she had some skill, and she had her training. Still, there was no one like a dedicated professional assassin to put some humble in your morning coffee.

Still.

Jane settled into her own stance, hands up like a boxer, and waved him in. Come at me, 'Hawkeye'.

He's not as good as Natasha, typically. But Clint's pretty damn good. Among SHIELD, he was one of the top agents before he got dragged down under Loki's control and spent months on psychiatric leave. Which just means, really, that Clint's in damn peak shape from working his frustration out on punching bags. Even here, that hasn't faded.

Shepard, he assumes, can hold her own against him for a while. So she gestures him in, boxer-solid, and he grins like a fox, sweeps in on light feet. Braced, his fist goes straight for her face, not expecting it to connect, but ready for her to dodge so he can pull back and attack again from another angle. His gaze has gone sharp and intent, almost as if he's picking her apart to the very molecules that made her up.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

open;

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maybe we should decide more how this is meant to go before getting too much farther

sure uwu