( 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.
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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. )