Maybe he takes way less than ten minutes to get up and get gone. Maybe he's just freakish that way. Whatever it is, Clint's beat his partner to the training field. He makes it all look casual, the slow easing of tension in his shoulders, the light bounce on his heels as he tries to get blood moving to combat the cold. There's a focus, though, in the set of his eyes. Taking careful inventory of your landscape is old hat to any killer, no matter how retired.
Blink and it's gone. There's an easy grin on his face, giving a brief Upnod™ to his partner by the time they show. Clint swaps the bow he's holding to his other hand, resettles his weight. ]
Hey, if you want another ten minute snooze, I could knock you out. [ Which would be a mildly threatening thing to say, if Clint wasn't wearing some form of shit-eating grin on his face. ]
➘ charity is as charity does
[ Out here, it's almost enough to remind him of home. Clint Barton knows more about fixing a leaking roof than he does using magic of any kind, shape, and form. So far, being new covers all manner of sins, and he's banking on that to hide this particular adventure too. It's the kind of misdemeanor that'd carry out better if he could have done it solo, but hell— new world, new rules. Guess he's gotta start stocking up the debt column sometime.
It's still a little dark out, but calm. The chill winter air's coming in fast. Clint's doing this the old fashioned way, hammer and nails, one of which is poking out the side of his mouth for a) easy access and b) an apparent lack of hygiene. He's been working steadily over the last ten or so minutes, balance perfect over the roof's uneven landscape, hammering with ease and accuracy. Not a sore thumb in sight. ]
So. [ He clears his throat lightly. ] You got a handle on the Craft business yet?
➘ free for all
[ Tag him with a starter, or if you have an idea, feel free to PM me! ]
clint barton | mcu
[ Psychic summons aren't his bag. Sue him.
Maybe he takes way less than ten minutes to get up and get gone. Maybe he's just freakish that way. Whatever it is, Clint's beat his partner to the training field. He makes it all look casual, the slow easing of tension in his shoulders, the light bounce on his heels as he tries to get blood moving to combat the cold. There's a focus, though, in the set of his eyes. Taking careful inventory of your landscape is old hat to any killer, no matter how retired.
Blink and it's gone. There's an easy grin on his face, giving a brief Upnod™ to his partner by the time they show. Clint swaps the bow he's holding to his other hand, resettles his weight. ]
Hey, if you want another ten minute snooze, I could knock you out. [ Which would be a mildly threatening thing to say, if Clint wasn't wearing some form of shit-eating grin on his face. ]
➘ charity is as charity does
[ Out here, it's almost enough to remind him of home. Clint Barton knows more about fixing a leaking roof than he does using magic of any kind, shape, and form. So far, being new covers all manner of sins, and he's banking on that to hide this particular adventure too. It's the kind of misdemeanor that'd carry out better if he could have done it solo, but hell— new world, new rules. Guess he's gotta start stocking up the debt column sometime.
It's still a little dark out, but calm. The chill winter air's coming in fast. Clint's doing this the old fashioned way, hammer and nails, one of which is poking out the side of his mouth for a) easy access and b) an apparent lack of hygiene. He's been working steadily over the last ten or so minutes, balance perfect over the roof's uneven landscape, hammering with ease and accuracy. Not a sore thumb in sight. ]
So. [ He clears his throat lightly. ] You got a handle on the Craft business yet?
➘ free for all
[ Tag him with a starter, or if you have an idea, feel free to PM me! ]