souffle_girlek | (no subject)

(no subject)

Oswin is not really up for 'socializing'.

And she didn't want to report that she spent her day (sensibly) in her rooms either, because then she has to talk about it, and she doesn't want to talk about it.

Really not.

So she's in the garage, deconstructing a car's engine (mostly with skill, sort of with brute force and mechanical aid). It's active, it's not in her rooms, and she can threaten anyone she feels threatened by with the electric drill.

It's a win-win, really.

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Clint doesn't try to sneak up on her; he comes from a completely visible angle, at a pretty normal pace. He doesn't call out, not even when he's close enough that it awkward not to say something -- she's using drills and stuff.

Friends don't startle friends who have drills (and stuff). And being loud is -- uncomfortable, now.

He settles for leaning against a nearby car, hands tucked into his pockets, and waiting for a good moment to say something.

The drill cuts off as something clatters, with the bright ping of metal, against the floor of the garage. Oswin, who's already half-in the engine compartment as it is, leans in further and huffs, the sound amplified by the metal around her.

"Welp, that can stay right there then." She really hopes she doesn't need that piece later.

It rolls all the way to Clint, who picks it up and -- after a moment -- clears his throat.

"I've, uh -- got it."

The sound she makes is 100% totes a war cry. Shut up. Squeaks are war cries.

Just ask the mice upstairs, if you don't believe her.

...

Ask them politely.

Still, there's a ~~squeak~~ war cry, and then an Oswin brandishing a drill in Clint's general direction. Once she registers that it is a Clint, she stops pointing it quite so much in his direction.

"Err, hi."

She winces at how awkward that sounds. She hasn't quite figured out how to ask if he's him, or if he's that other him. She feels this is an important thing to ask before relinquishing the drill.

His mouth quirks with amusement at the squeak, piece held carefully between two of his fingers. "The Bar-- said you might be down here."

Maybe in not as polite of words. Maybe.

"Nice car."

She caaaan't remember Other!Clint smiling at all. Lots of grim silences and attempts to shake her off, yeah, but smiling... no.

She sets the ~~weapon~~ drill aside, and finishes turning to sit on the open edge of the engine compartment.

"Did she tell you to stop me from abusing it? Because you're late, if she did." She fully intends to have this car in pieces, mostly so she can figure out how it all goes together in the first place.

"Nah," Clint says. "Something about wanton destruction of property, but nothing about abusing. Or stopping."

He tosses the piece, lightly, so it lands in the bucket resting inside the space.

He hesitates, and rubs at the back of his neck. "How've you been?"

She considers this question for a long moment.

"I'm out here so that I don't have to explain why I spent all week in my room." She finally decides on, shrugging.

"Again. The first time I think I got a pass. Also concern. Ugh."

His brow furrows. "Who's giving you shit about spending time in your room?"

"The person who's agreed to help me figure out ways to not spend my life in my room." She retorts, rolling her eyes at him. "Don't worry, I"m not being picked on."

"Yeah, well," Clint says, and falls silent. Therapists aren't exactly his favorite topic at the moment.

"I got the all-clear," he adds, and forces a grin.

"Yeah? Told you you're an idiot, you're fine." So she's a little jealous, she's not even going to touch that emotion with a ten-foot-pole. Examining that leads to her ending up endlessly monitoring the bot feeds.

Again.

Ugh, not again.

"Sure," he says, and swallows. "Got vacation out of it, too. For a few months, at least. So-- if you're ever bored with," he waves a hand at the car she's leaning on, "there's a whole world out there."

Pause.

"You can't dismantle my car."

"... Soooooo..." She's trying to think of a way to say this that doesn't sound perfectly desperate.

She gives it up as a bad job fairly quickly. This is just going to have to sound ugly desperate and she'll have to live with that.

"Were you thinking of start times for this vacation? Because I'm particularly fond of now."

He relaxes, a bit, like he didn't even know he was holding himself still. "Sure. Just -- "

He hesitates. He's thought about this, but he still hesitates.

"I'm not saying you can't hack anything. But there's -- groups who you need to agree not to."

"... Can you assure me they're not... Daleks?" The last word is bitten off, spit out, and hastily distanced from.

"Because really, all bets would be off in that case, I don't think that's actually a binding promise really, and I'd practically be honor-bound to burn it all right to the ground."

"They're not Daleks," Clint says, and he sounds as confident as a man who's work at extremely high levels of intelligence gathering for decades.

(There are things he doesn't know but he doesn't yet know how far that extends.)

"I can't say they don't exist in my universe, but SHIELD would have noticed if they'd ever been to my Earth. They're paranoid like that."

"I approve of paranoia." This is... part of the reason she now has someone helping her not stay in her room all the time, but that is completely besides the point.

"Fine, I won't hack your buddies."

"Thanks," he says, dry. "No banks, either, while you're at it."

He straightens. "Do you want to pack, or pick up clothes from the Bar?"

"Awww, take all my fun." She rolls her eyes at him - what does she need with a bank? More to the point, she snaps her fingers and points at the floor in front of her. A minute later one of the spiderbots scuttles into view.

"Hey, you guys take care of the cat, alright? And fry anyone who tries to take him." Since Oswin didn't exactly program her bots to talk back, we're all just going to have to take it scuttling back off again as agreement.

"Picking up clothes from the Bar, I don't know what your crazy fashions are but damn am I going to rock them."

He laughs, low and brief.

"Yeah? Maybe we'll go dancing some night."

"Sold." She hops down from her car, dis-engaging the prop and letting the hood slam down behind her.

"Err... it's not... all like... snow, where you are, right?"

That could be problematic. Very problematic.

"Nah," Clint says. Once she's off the car, he starts heading for the entrance to the garage. "It's summer. I'd bring layers -- it cools off at night -- but it shouldn't get below...," he trails off, glancing over his shoulder. "Do you know Fahrenheit measurements?"

She gives him a wide-eyed look of incomprehension - she sees her oven temperatures as gas marks ~~because the future is British, doncha know~~.

"I'm good with 'not snowing' though, that's brilliant, let's stick with that."

Edited 2016-07-01 13:40 (UTC)

He laughs, still quiet. "Yeah, okay."

When they arrive at the Bar, his description is: "Probably Southern California through the Pacific Northwest. Maybe some of the Southwest, whatever. 2012."

He glances to Oswin, waiting for her to chime in with what sort of clothes she wants. Otherwise, he's just going to ask for a British passport. One fewer thing to do once they go back to his world.