ArchivedLogs:Normal Social Circumstances

Normal Social Circumstances
Dramatis Personae Clint, Lucien
In Absentia	2016-01-23 "It's a lot less cutthroat than Tumblr."
Location <NYC> Hilton - Midtown
Just a few blocks north of Times Square , this is a popular lodging for theatre fans in town for Broadway shows. It may not be the fanciest hotel in town, but it /is/ the largest, tastefully appointed in the bland, inoffensive fashion of most mainstream hotel chains. Today the hotel is more crowded than might be expected on any given Saturday in January, but considerably less so than it would be if there weren't a blizzard raging outside. Glossy posters and placards all around advertise BroadwayCon events: panels, workshops, autograph sessions, and performances all weekend long. A handful of afternoon panels have recently released their attendees to mill about in the lobby in small knots near the guests, some of whom are more eager than others to escape their adoring (but largely respectful) fans. Clint, however, is having none of this. He slipped out of the "Divas, Darlings, and Dames" lecture a few minutes early and has wended his way up to a balcony in a lesser-used hallway near the bar. It seems doubtful if the door to this balcony is meant to be unlocked in general, much less on a frigid, snowy day, but he's out there anyway. He wears a plain black coat with a stand collar over a purple heather t-shirt that reads 'Magic to Do!' in glossy metallic red and blue letters, a sleek pack on his back, heavy black jeans, and no-nonsense black snow boots. He stares out into the snow, falling faster all the time, impassive and seemingly unbothered by the chill. Clint has a good stretch of alone time out on the balcony before the door opens again, depositing one lone figure out into the snow. Lucien seems rather underdressed for the cold, in a slim-fit blue button-down and dark jeans, a dark grey peacoat unbuttoned over top. He's dipping his head, already lighting a slender black cigarette between his lips as he slips outside, stepping to one side out of clear view of the windows back in to the hotel (and the rest of the departing crowd from the acting workshop he has just been teaching.) It's only a moment later that he looks up with a small furrow of his brow, dipping his head slightly apologetically to Clint and lowering the cigarette (which smells, sweetly, of cloves.) "Ah -- forgive me, do you --" Though here he trails off, eying Clint with a small twitch of lips. Vivid green eyes flicking from the man's shirt up to his face, his brows quirking. Other than a quick shift of eyes tracking over to Lucien when he comes out onto the balcony, Clint does not move at all. He only actually turns to the other man when he speak, and when he does it's to watch him /intently./ After a beat, he replies, "No. It's fine." For a moment it seems possible he's just going to go back to staring at the snow. Then he turns back to Lucien. "I enjoyed your performance." He says this evenly, casually, then adds, "In /Pippin./" Lucien's expression relaxes into an easier smile at this assurance. He lifts his fingers back to his lips for a deep and relieved drag of the cigarette, eyes fluttering half closed. The slow breath of laughter he exhales comes on a cloud of smoke, his head turning to breathe it out into the wind, away from Clint. He half-turns, leaning one hip against the balcony rail as he turns back towards the other man. "You saw it." There's a glimmer of amusement in his bright eyes. "Merci. I am glad you enjoyed it. Considerably more pleasant than the last time you saw me working, no?" Again there's a noticeable delay in Clint's response, as if he really needs to mull over even a simple answer such as "Yes. Several times." He tilts his head slightly, one eyebrow lifting just a sliver at the confirmation that Lucien recognizes him. The shift is subtle, and gone again as he looks back out into the storm. "It's my favorite musical," this with a wry twist of his mouth. "Pippin is a tough role. Needs a light touch and tremendous stage presence." He gives a slight shrug, matter-of-fact. "You have both." Lucien's smile quirks, quick and easy as he shifts to face forward again, ashing his cigarette out over the balcony and facing out into the snowy city to draw another puff. "You're very kind. Pleasing critics is one thing but dedicated fans --" His hand lowers, dangling over the edge of the railing as his weight shifts down onto his elbows, eyes flicking sidelong to Clint and then back out into the storm. "I've had your assistance and your food and now your praise as well but I still have yet to get your name." Clint only stares at Lucien harder, brows wrinkling and brown eyes eyes narrowing, when he turns to face the street. The delay is even longer this time. At length, he gives a small, quick shake of his head, barely perceptible. "Would you mind repeating that last bit?" Though his tone is as equable as before, there's a very faint flush of red in his cheeks. "Facing me?" Lucien lifts his cigarette halfway to his lips, pausing only at Clint's question to half-turn, cocking his head towards the other man. "Mmm?" The slight inward pull of his brows is mildly quizzical. "{Ah, sorry,} I did not want to --" He waves the cigarette between his fingers in indication, although the brisker wind, now, ensures that his smoke is unlikely to blow towards Clint regardless of where he is facing. His eyes linger on Clint through the next drag of his smoke; it's only as he exhales again that he adds: "I only said my manners have been terrible. All this time and I've yet to ask your name. We've been through so much together, after all." Clint nods, the tight knot between his brows easing, though not vanishing. He still focuses on the other man rather intensely when he speaks. "I didn't think you were being rude. We didn't exactly meet under...normal social circumstances." His lips quirk as if he finds this phrase amusing somehow. But then he takes a small step toward the other man and offers his hand. "Clint Barton." "No, not quite," Lucien agrees with a mirthful readiness, "I was rather busy with empty sexual experimentation and committing patricide. But the other thing, by now, that's old hat, n'est-ce pas? Though I would still dearly love to know where you come by those arrows of yours." The clasp of his hand is firm; together with the easy warmth of his smile it comes with a quiet whisper of cheer, a faint pleasurable trickle twining subtle-soft through the other man's mood. Also subtle is the light touch that softens the worst edges of the other man's headache, dulling the ache without removing it entirely. "Clint Barton," he echoes, with a nod, bright eyes meeting the other man's steadily before he releases his hand, rocks back a step to take another puff of his cigarette. "Do these crowds get to you as much as they do me?" "Not a /whole/ lot of that other thing going on anymore." For the first time since they started speaking, Clint smiles a whole and uncrooked smile. "My brother designed it, and other trick arrows, too. We--" And here he smiles even wider. "--used to run with a circus. I make my own, now. Well, /assemble/ them. The 3D printer does most of the work." He glances back into the hotel, perhaps reflexively, at the question. "I'm not /fond/ of the crowd, but it's really more exhausting to follow the panel discussions." He pauses here, considers Lucien for a moment. "Lipreading one person is hard enough." "No." Lucien's thumb twitches in a hard flick at the filter of his cigarette. His eyes skim out towards the snow, the upward curl of his smile coming in a thin quick-twitch as well. "No. I suppose we have gotten past that, too." He shakes his head once, quick, smile warmer at this next: "Goodness, a circus? Really? You would have fit right in with us, then. That's delightful. What else can they do? I have never even seen any like that." His brows raise higher at that last statement, head tilting slightly to the side and lips briefly pursing. He takes another slow pull from his cigarette, hand lowering to rest on the icy railing. "Lipreading." This echo comes after some delay. "The whole panels? Goodness, really, that's..." His brows furrow, eyes fixing on Clint's face. Doubtfully: "... I don't suppose the con has much provision for accessibility." "'Us?'" Clint's brows lift up. "I've no gift for acting, the show we did was all acrobatics and trick shots. But we had a pretty wide repertoire: flaming arrows, shrieking arrows, grappling arrows, exploding arrows." He leans on the railing and allows a satisfied smirk. "One that actually comes /back/." His index finger describes a long arc, curving out in front of him and then bending back. "It's pretty inaccurate, though." He frowns here. "In retrospect it's remarkable we survived adolescence." He looks back inside again, to the warmth and light and milling groups of fans. "Not much, but they try. Let me sit up front." Giving a small shrug, he closes his eyes eyes for just a fraction longer than the average blink, as if even /talking/ about it makes his eyes hurt. "You--just not a fan of crowds?" "Us," Lucien agrees easily. "You saw our show, half of it was all acrobatics. Sadly few explosions, though. My, but I would like to try some of those." A note of amusement lighten his tone. He takes a final drag of his cigarette, stubbing it out against the balcony railing. "Though sometimes I do wonder that anyone survives adolescence." His eyes follow Clint's, out towards the warmer lights of the hotel inside; as if it has reminded him of the cold out /here/, a faint shiver ripples up through him. "I don't suppose you want some painkillers /now/? We're unlikely to have any undead to fight." His own smile is smaller, a slow laugh shaking his shoulders briefly. "Crowds I adore." This is quick. Light. Though a moment later: "... so long as I have a stage." "Very nice bonfire, though." Clint runs his fingers along the ice-glazed railing. "Most archery ranges prohibit stuff like that, but that's what empty lots are for." He fishes a card from a pocket of his jeans, advertising a blog ('Take a Bow!') about Broadway shows, though it does have an email address on it, as well. "Drop me a note, if you have some spare time between saving the city and entertaining it." Passing the card to Lucien, he raises his brows. "I...could use some, yeah. Is it that obvious?" He taps his temple gently, giving a rueful half-smile. This draws a chuckle from Lucien as he takes Clint's card -- it only deepens when he looks at the name of the blog. "I would like that. /These/ days time is easier to come by. -- What do you do now that you're not, ah, circusing?" He pockets the card, hand pulling back out of the pocket of his peacoat with a small wooden pillbox as well as an epipen, though the latter gets dropped back into his pocket straightaway. "It's in the eyes." He slides the top of the pillbox open -- it holds an /assortment/ of pills, his lips pursing. "Advil, Tylenol, Lortab, or Oxy?" His brows lift, questioning. "Maintaining that blog takes up more time than you might imagine," Clint replies, deadpan. "A /lot/ of people are wrong on the Internet." Then, with a thoughtful moue, "Well, I do some security work to pay the bills, too. It's a lot less cutthroat than Tumblr." He doesn't even blink at Lucien's pocketful of medications. "Tylenol should do--it's not nearly so bad as it was a while ago. Thank you." "If you dedicate your time to righting online transgressions," Lucien has a very small wince as he plucks two Tylenol from the box, closes it, slips it back into his pocket, "I am surprised you do not need something stronger." Still, he holds the pills out on the palm of his hand. "Thank /you/. I do believe I am feeling just about up to braving my next panel." "I'm taking a day off from that." Clint accepts the pills and downs them without any water. "I like to vary the source of my headaches. Keeps things fresh." He nods once, looking back inside appraisingly. "You'll have a stage, at least. Maybe I'll see you around." "Will I have to think of a newer and more exciting source of headache, next time? That sounds exhausting. I suppose we will have to make it engaging enough to make it worth your while." Lucien's hand lifts to touch fingers to his forehead in a casual salute. He brushes a dusting of snow off his jacket, runs fingers through his hair, pauses just a brief moment to check his reflection in the glass of the window of the hotel. Straightens a little taller, fixes his smile a little brighter, and heads back in.