( You know what? He appreciates the assist. He won't even bitch about Clint slipping under one of his arms like he's an invalid — he's been standing in soup for the better part of an hour, then taking five slugs to the core after beating on concrete? Not at his best. He leans heavily into the guy for the first couple steps, until his muscles unlock and he can straighten again, carried forth by momentum and spite combined. )
That's what they tell me. ( Wry; Clint has joined a long line of people well-versed in the art of bitching about everything Frank Castle does. He is an infuriating man, and a difficult one to love. For some reason, god knows why, a few stupid people choose to do it anyway. ) I'll bring you with next time.
( That last one — that's actually serious. He means it. He's not sure why; he's more into handling shit by himself, has been ever since the accident, but... for some reason, hell, he doesn't know, he feels the tug. The impulse. This shit would've gone smoother with Clint here. Clint probably would've noticed his ass sinking into the soup in the first place before shit got too bad. Maybe it's not so bad, accepting that he likes working with a partner. That he likes backup.
Not everything has to end the way shit did with Billy Russo.
He chews his tongue and, after a few steps, starts — )
I had this friend once... Somebody I served with. We did three tours. He was like my brother, shit, my kids called him Uncle Bill. He had my back. I haven't- ( He bites the inside of his cheek; his jaw works for a tic. ) I do what I do by myself for a reason. It wasn't because you're not good. You're the best. I'm just not used to having backup anymore.
[He is not going to complain about taking weight, and he isn't going to complain (this time) if Frank only wants to lean on him for a bit before the machismo kicks back in to drive him forward under his own power more.
It does make him feel better, to know that Frank will lean on him (figuratively) more in the future. They don't have to spend every outing together; god knows Clint does plenty of scavenging on his own as it is. Sometimes these raiders are just going to happen. But going hunting, or wandering into a particularly fraught area? He'd like a heads up. Hell, he'll even try not to be a hypocrite and extend the same offer to Frank.
Then there's the rest. The friend, the brother, the uncle. Something happened there. Reasons the Marine who had a band of brothers around him would choose to go at it lone wolf style. He thinks, briefly, about Auntie Nat, feels green around the gills about it, moves on from the thought.] I can be a real pain in the ass to shake. I'll grow on you like a weed; I'll just keep coming back if you try to push me away.
( Neither of them can really know how that statement's going to foreshadow events in the not-too-distant future. Here and now, in the meantime, while Frank is in a relatively healthy place and he's not actively shooting himself in the foot, he only scoffs out a soft, breathy laugh. )
Yeah, I'm startin' to get that. ( Sooner rather than later, the mommyvan (god damn you) is in sight. Sooner rather than later, he's tiredly thrusting his shit into the back — that hammer, his rifle. Sooner rather than later, he's slamming the hatch shut and leaning tiredly on the bumper to level Clint with an earnest look. ) Hey, Barton... Thanks. For coming to soup. Think we might be even.
( For that whole near-drowning kiss of life thing a few months back. )
Could be. Or maybe we'll be even when I bring you back from straight up not breathing. [There's part of him that's tempted to just insist on driving, but that'd be leaving his own car here, and god only knows when shit might turn soupy again. Man's exhausted, not half dead.] Lucky for both of us, I'm not exactly keeping track.
[He's never been that kind of guy. His numbers have always been in the red (bleeding, dripping, gushing red), and doing the right thing's never going to be about getting even about anything.]
'Sides, you saw the shooter coming. [Clint was a little busy being grateful Frank was alive. God damn it.] You knew you could take the hits. Dipshit could've taken out both of us if he was any good at his job, so.
[Thanks for the counter-save, is kind of what he's getting at.]
( And let them both just hope there's never a situation where Clint's ever gotta bring him back from the brink, not breathing, heart barely beating. If they could avoid getting that level of even at all costs, he'd appreciate that.
Anyway, his work out here is done. Another squad of raiders cleaned up, a bystander saved from their shitty attempt at a jump. He'll count it as a win, even if he did need a hand getting out of soup. He's ready to get the hell out of here.
Which brings him to his next pitch: )
Buy you a beer?
( He could go for a fucking drink. As it so happens, he knows a place — one that has him on the buy one, get one list for life, according to the bartender. If Clint takes him up on it, this'll be how he finally meets a girl named Nashua Whelan. )
Beer I don't have to pay for? I'd be stupid to turn that down.
[Something to quietly celebrate not dying. Something to take the edge off. Something not soup. Something that is the closest thing either of them can probably get to normal around here. There's no chance in hell Clint's going to want to meander to the Dome for hits or watching people get hit tonight or even the next several, he's pretty sure.
He cocks his head at Frank, then motions up and down to him.] Tell me you're gonna get cleaned up first. Pretty sure ripped jeans never came back in style.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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That's what they tell me. ( Wry; Clint has joined a long line of people well-versed in the art of bitching about everything Frank Castle does. He is an infuriating man, and a difficult one to love. For some reason, god knows why, a few stupid people choose to do it anyway. ) I'll bring you with next time.
( That last one — that's actually serious. He means it. He's not sure why; he's more into handling shit by himself, has been ever since the accident, but... for some reason, hell, he doesn't know, he feels the tug. The impulse. This shit would've gone smoother with Clint here. Clint probably would've noticed his ass sinking into the soup in the first place before shit got too bad. Maybe it's not so bad, accepting that he likes working with a partner. That he likes backup.
Not everything has to end the way shit did with Billy Russo.
He chews his tongue and, after a few steps, starts — )
I had this friend once... Somebody I served with. We did three tours. He was like my brother, shit, my kids called him Uncle Bill. He had my back. I haven't- ( He bites the inside of his cheek; his jaw works for a tic. ) I do what I do by myself for a reason. It wasn't because you're not good. You're the best. I'm just not used to having backup anymore.
no subject
It does make him feel better, to know that Frank will lean on him (figuratively) more in the future. They don't have to spend every outing together; god knows Clint does plenty of scavenging on his own as it is. Sometimes these raiders are just going to happen. But going hunting, or wandering into a particularly fraught area? He'd like a heads up. Hell, he'll even try not to be a hypocrite and extend the same offer to Frank.
Then there's the rest. The friend, the brother, the uncle. Something happened there. Reasons the Marine who had a band of brothers around him would choose to go at it lone wolf style. He thinks, briefly, about Auntie Nat, feels green around the gills about it, moves on from the thought.] I can be a real pain in the ass to shake. I'll grow on you like a weed; I'll just keep coming back if you try to push me away.
no subject
Yeah, I'm startin' to get that. ( Sooner rather than later, the mommyvan (god damn you) is in sight. Sooner rather than later, he's tiredly thrusting his shit into the back — that hammer, his rifle. Sooner rather than later, he's slamming the hatch shut and leaning tiredly on the bumper to level Clint with an earnest look. ) Hey, Barton... Thanks. For coming to soup. Think we might be even.
( For that whole near-drowning kiss of life thing a few months back. )
no subject
[He's never been that kind of guy. His numbers have always been in the red (bleeding, dripping, gushing red), and doing the right thing's never going to be about getting even about anything.]
'Sides, you saw the shooter coming. [Clint was a little busy being grateful Frank was alive. God damn it.] You knew you could take the hits. Dipshit could've taken out both of us if he was any good at his job, so.
[Thanks for the counter-save, is kind of what he's getting at.]
no subject
( And let them both just hope there's never a situation where Clint's ever gotta bring him back from the brink, not breathing, heart barely beating. If they could avoid getting that level of even at all costs, he'd appreciate that.
Anyway, his work out here is done. Another squad of raiders cleaned up, a bystander saved from their shitty attempt at a jump. He'll count it as a win, even if he did need a hand getting out of soup. He's ready to get the hell out of here.
Which brings him to his next pitch: )
Buy you a beer?
( He could go for a fucking drink. As it so happens, he knows a place — one that has him on the buy one, get one list for life, according to the bartender. If Clint takes him up on it, this'll be how he finally meets a girl named Nashua Whelan. )
no subject
[Something to quietly celebrate not dying. Something to take the edge off. Something not soup. Something that is the closest thing either of them can probably get to normal around here. There's no chance in hell Clint's going to want to meander to the Dome for hits or watching people get hit tonight or even the next several, he's pretty sure.
He cocks his head at Frank, then motions up and down to him.] Tell me you're gonna get cleaned up first. Pretty sure ripped jeans never came back in style.
🎀
Not my fault you don't understand fashion.
( Before hopping into the driver's seat, pulling out, and lagging behind enough to follow Clint's car back onto the highway toward the city. )