Logs:Weight
| Weight | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-08-02 "Shot that for you." |
| Location
texts & <NYC> Belfry - Le Bonne Entente - Astoria - Queens | |
It's not so very late at night when a text arrives on Lucien's newly resurrected phone.
<NYC> Belfry - Le Bonne Entente - Astoria - Queens Atop the imposing bell tower, this space is partially open to the air for the sake of acoustics. The wildlife displaced by renovations have been returning by slow, cautious degrees, like the family of ravens that have taken up residence amongst the architectural ornamentation and the bats roosting in the cavernous space overhead. The old cathedral's bells have been restored and reinstalled there, and though--luckily for the bats' eardrums--they are not currently in use, they do add excellent ambience for the select few with both access and cause to come up here. Clearly someone does, for more than just routine cleaning and maintenance. A row of archery targets are bolted to hard points in the floor. Opposite these, a bench has been installed a moderately safe distance from the edge, framed by the columns and the arch. If admiring the view from the comfort of the bench isn't enough, a fixed ladder meant for accessing the bells also provides a way out to the tower's roof and a much more expansive and perilous vista. It is late, now. There's an indistinct glow coming from the belltower, faint and glimmering down by the bench. Up on the roof above there's a much more distinct glow, where Lucien's phone screen is lighting his face. He's dressed in a lightweight long-sleeved button down in a springlike plaid of celadon, sky, lilac, and white, gray linen slacks, and white leather sneakers. His perch would probably be somewhat precarious under any circumstances but, likely, the decanter tucked between his legs doesn't increase confidence in his stability. He isn't all that wobbly at the moment, though, intermittently sipping straight from the elegant crystal bottle in between answering messages. An arrow whistles through the darkness from atop the tower of the nearby Hell Gate Bridge, looping the acroterion on the southwestern corner of L'Entente's belltower and hooking securely onto the fine cable trailing nearly invisible behind it. The cable pulls taut, then dips as the archer at the other end hooks his bow onto it and zips over. A moment later, Hawkeye is alighting on the roof, though he isn't dressed for superheroing, in a heather purple tee with "Magic to Do!" in glossy red and blue metallic letters, black tactical pants, and climbing shoes, an additional case tacked to the side of the also arcane quiver on his back. He picks his way over to Lucien and perches beside him. "Shot that for you." He jerks his head in the direction of the zipline. Lucien splutters, coughs, fumbles both his phone and his drink. He opts to save the latter, snatching at the decanter before it can slide away from him, though the phone itself is slipping down toward the edge of the roof. Lucien dabs at his eyes, blinking at the zip line. His head is shaking, bemused, but he's offering the decanter to Clint. Clint sticks out his foot and neatly flips Lucien's phone up into his hand before it can tumble over the edge, passing it smoothly back to its owner even as he accepts the drink. He sniffs at the decanter, his brows furrowing as he evidently fails to identify the libation, but he takes a slow sip anyway. His brows lift slowly and he gives an impressed moue of approval. "Nice." He returns the decanter and looks Lucien over, slow and considering. "What's going on?" "Email. I thought I said." Lucien dips his head in thanks, when Clint returns him his phone. He takes another sip of his drink, and this time there is a small tug of his smile when he looks at the zipline. "I would say also a bit of housebreaking, but I suppose you aren't quite inside yet." "Didn't break anything either," Clint points out. It's true that this grapple arrow grappled its own cable rather than firing anchors into the building. "What'd Fury do?" His tone is bland and matter-of-fact, as if it's a foregone conclusion Fury did something untoward. "Truly, the most considerate burgarling I have ever experienced." There is amusement in this accusation. Lucien lowers the bottle, his head tilting up toward the sky. "Nothing. He worries. I suppose I am touched, that he worries." He passes the decanter back to Clint on a slow exhale, and whatever but is dispersed through the sigh does not collect itself into words. "Was it him you were watching, or me?" "You only say that because you've never been burgled by Nat." Clint drinks deeper this time, and swivels the decanter to squint at its contents' legs, as if this would tell him anything meaningful. "What's in this?" His eyes fix steadily on Lucien's face. "Wasn't watching. I just made some educated guesses, but I take it this is a bad kind of 'touched.'" He chews on his lower lip, only briefly conflicted before he allows, "He doesn't like being out of his depth." "Would I even know it, if I had?" Lucien is draping himself back, along the slant of the roof, one arm crooked up for a pillow. His head rolls to the side to look squarely back at Clint and deliver the exceedingly helpful information: "Alcohol. It was a gift." His other hand has fallen across the flat of his stomach; in it, his phone is buzzing and he grimaces as he glances at it. Shoots off a quick reply, and this time stows it in a pocket. "I haven't intended to keep putting him there." "Hm." Clint bobs his head a little ambiguously from side to side and, after more thought than really seems entirely necessary, admits, "It's hard to say." He hands the Alcohol (gift) back to Lucien and sits a little more upright. "He doesn't have to keep putting himself there, either. I thought your disappearance had shocked him into some kind of acceptance, but I guess the fact we didn't find you was also a shock." He shrugs one shoulder. "It's a different kind, though, and I expect he'll get over it. Maybe after he creates a new department about it." "I was in another dimension. It was, perhaps, out of even SHIELD's formidable reach." Lucien grimaces, his eyes dropping to the bottle as he takes it back, and his, "For now," is slightly grimmer than it needs to be. Something has shuttered in his expression, tight and dark in a way that makes it all the more striking when the warmth returns vivid to his eyes. "I brought back something else. Even better than the spirits." He stoppers the decanter, getting to his feet and beckoning Clint to follow as he makes his way back to the ladder. "Huh." Clint considers this new information noncommittally, studying Lucien's face. "I would have guessed that would make him feel better about this. We already have a department for that and everything." He pushes himself up and follows Lucien. "Other dimension makes good booze, anyway." He stops talking once Lucien has turned the other way, presumably to avoid tempting the Hearing to respond when he can't see but also perhaps to avoid distracting him during the climb. Once they've made the level floor of the belltower, he reaches back and unclips the extra case from his quiver. "I've been talking new arrows with Barney. Some of them need beta testing." The lights are not currently on in the belltower, but beside the bench Lucien's new bow is visible enough. It seems almost to be glowing with its own inner light, silvery-soft and reminiscent of starlight -- but though there's little enough illumination coming from the bare sliver of moonlight tonight maybe that was a trick of the light itself, because the faint luminosity vanishes entirely when Lucien nears it. Still, once he does switch on the soft low lights up here, the bow, no longer luminous, still looks fairly otherworldly. It seems at once sturdy and ethereal, wrapped in fine threads of some silk whose colour defies easy description. The quiver is of a silk to match; the ends of the arrows inside are in a mix of fine woods, fletched with a variety of feathers not all easily identifiable. "I think he mislikes that he did not catch the rift opening, and likes even less that he knows nothing about the world itself." Lucien has stopped by the bow, not actually picked it up -- he's turning to peer at Clint's extra case with brows lifted. "Will beta testing them leave my roof intact?" Clint eyes Lucien's otherworldly bow, expression blank but posture bespeaking curious perplexity. "It's beautiful. What's it made out of?" He opens the arrow case and surveys the contents critically. Each bears a self-adhesive tag labeled in his brother's barely legible scrawl. "Intact but potentially messy. We can leave out the messy ones, though, I have to test them at HQ anyway. Most of them." He plucks up an arrow labeled "Yabumi 3.0" and hands it to Lucien. There's a small pull-tab on the shaft that when pulled deploys a slip of paper with a rough sketch of a hand making the ILY sign, a pen tucked into the lower rod of the arrow-scroll. "Fury's made a career fighting the unknown and inconceivable. Every mystery is a threat to him." He hesitates, picking up another arrow and rolling it between his hands. "Did he get on your case for not taking it seriously enough?" "Spider silk. Starlight. Celerity." Lucien offers this all evenly enough it's hard to tell if he's serious or just bullshitting. He's plucking gently at the tab, and as the scroll comes out his eyes are going just a little wider and just a little brighter. "Oh!" There's an unaffected delight in this quiet breath. "I'm keeping this one." He is rolling the slip back up very carefully and tucking it away into his quiver. He picks up his bow now, gesturing for the unknown arrow in Clint's hands. "I took it quite seriously. He -- has some. Concerns. About my health." Clint narrows his eyes, not in disapproval but confusion at the materials Lucien lists, none of which are likely what he was expecting. "You lost me after 'spider silk', man." He looks at the drawing on the scroll when Lucien opens it, smiling faintly. "I thought you'd like that. It's supposed to pop the message out on impact, but the mechanism still needs work." The arrow he hands Lucien next is labeled "Paint - Hawkeye purple (FUN!)", and has a similar balance to Clint's glue arrows. "Not like him to mother-hen. What kind of concerns?" "Apologies, I could have just said I've no idea exactly how the crafter made this." Lucien hasn't, actually, looked at the label on this one. Just hefted it in his hand and then fitted it to his bow, peering down at his targets as he draws. "Mmm. My addictions. My delusions. He hasn't yet fired me, I suppose I ought to be thankful for that." He looses the arrow to thud straight towards the bullseye in the center target. The arrow splatters enough purple paint to cover all the yellow at the center of the target. Clint stares at Lucien's bow, then at Lucien himself, eyes wide with undisguised wonder. "Holy shit." This comes out hushed, almost a whisper. "I can see you took it quite seriously. Too bad your bowyer is in a whole other universe because I'd really love to meet them." He plucks up another arrow ("Non-magnetic"), deploys his bow as he raises it, and nocks the arrow in two simultaneous fluid movements that become one when he fires. The non-magnetic arrow hits home at the very center of the next target. "You've been addicted the whole time he's known you, and he's been, too." He pokes through his case of prototype arrows and hands one labeled "Fire extinguisher" to Lucien. "How does he figure you're delusional?" Lucien lowers his gaze, a faint flush in his cheeks. "I had a lot of practice, while I was away." He is leaning on his bow, which for all its flexibility now seems oddly sturdy as a support, as well. He's nodding along, approving but unsurprised at Clint's clean shot. "Out of step with reality, is what he actually said. I suppose I cannot really argue the point. After the year I have had --" The troubled crease of his brow is fleeting. "-- though ultimately it had nothing to do with the aliens or magical quests or any of it. Just some banal family drama he found himself in the middle of. At a certain point I have to think if my opinion is out of step with everyone else's, then --" He takes the next arrow and fires it fluidly, right at the arrow at the center of the purple splotch. "At the end of the day, what is reality but the perspectives that get the best consensus." "I don't suppose you joined up with a circus, while you were over there." Clint's brows furrow lightly, and there's no real vehemence in his voice when he declares, "Bullshit. S.H.I.E.L.D. is out of step with consensus reality. He hires to you do information management specifically to keep things that actually happened out of consensus reality." His brows wrinkle deeper. "Or--insert them more gently, I guess. Not my department." The fire extinguisher arrow explodes on contact with the already planted paint arrow and sprays white fire suppressant foam all over the already besmirched target. "Fury didn't buy that you overdosed, back in March, and he didn't buy it after you got back." He had just started to poke through the arrows in the case again and picked one up (the label reads "Tracking"), but he looks up at Lucien again. "...does he buy it now?" Lucien's eyes have gone wider at this explosion, with a delight that does not make it into his quiet voice. "I did overdose." Clint blinks. "Alright." He frowns down at the tracking arrow, then fits it to his bow and lets it fly, thudding neatly home beside the non-magnetic one on his clean, non-goopy target. "But it wasn't an accident. We tried investigating, but. No corpse, no death." His shrug is small and tight. "Your family doesn't know how to do banal." He frowns. "Neither does Fury. Until now, apparently. Did he say why he changed his mind?" "I didn't say it was an accident. I just -- had been perhaps a touch more dramatic than necessary about the whole ordeal." Lucien isn't taking another arrow, still looking at the mess down by his targets with some appreciation. He sets his bow aside and goes to pick up the decanter again, unstoppering it to take a large swig. "He talked to my mother. She was evidently concerned." Clint runs his hand over his stubbly chin, staring through and not at the target buried in a mountain of fire suppressant foam. "I haven't noticed you being dramatic about any of this, which is impressive considering the circumstances." This brooks no argument. "I don't like her," seems almost like an aside. "She hurts my eyes, and nobody else seems to notice she's dressed like a bad trip." He rolls the shaft of his next arrow between his thumb and his fingers. "I doubt she cares about you and doubt even more that Fury would take her word over yours." He searches Lucien's expression as if for some sign that he's joking. "But he does." He purses his lips. "Since he talked to her. Do you think you're in danger? From either of them." "I came perilously close to considering crying in Director Fury's arms," Lucien argues. "Right after my last premiere, it was all quite maudlin." Are there signs of joking in Lucien's expression? It is very impassive, so, perhaps. Possibly this calculus is not helped along by his (also deadpan): "If you think her style outlandish you ought to see my father." He offers Clint the decanter in exchange for the next arrow -- whose tag he's again not looking at, just firing it swift and sure towards the shaft of Clint's last shot. "I've no idea what danger means, any more. I think she would be quite happy if I'd stayed dead. Perhaps I only think it because I have lost touch with reality." "But, luckily, you didn't," Clint says, then almost immediately reconsiders. "Then again, considering your work around that invasion and the aftermath, he'd have probably forgiven you just about anything at that point." The shock arrow Lucien takes from Clint actually shatters the non-magnetic arrow to take its place at the center of the bullseye, though it does not discharge much in the way of visible electricity. Clint stares at Lucien's bow again, shaking his head in amazement as he takes a swig from the decanter. "The draw weight on that has to be--" He frowns. "Did you get Captain America'd over there? A bit more literally than here. You don't look super swole, but it doesn't always...show." He returns the libation and picks up his next arrow ("Tracking", reads Barney's label), holding it between his teeth while he adjusts the tension on the limbs of his bow. "I didn't think you knew your father," he says once his mouth is free again. When the draws next it's visibly a strain, and his arrow splinters the one that Lucien just shot but loses so much force in the process that it does not hit the actual target quite solidly, drooping a little from the bullseye. He shakes his head again. "I don't need to tell you Fury's hard to sway, and even if he had no reason to think she bears you any ill will, she started out at a handicap just because she's a mutant and he doesn't know what she does." The next arrow he picks up reads "Dart - placebo (I do not want to know what you put in these)", and he looks at it a little accusingly. "Any chance she's some kind of telepath?" There's a faint pleased crinkle at the corner of Lucien's eyes, at Clint's amazement. He takes a slow sip of his drink as he watches Clint's next shot. "I haven't grown --" His brow creases here, though, and he adds a carefully hedging: "-- not in any musculature sense." His mouth twitches slight at the corner, and rather than the drink again, this time it's his bow he offers out to the other man, decanter set aside on the bench. "He punches a bit above his weight class," he offers as a quiet caution along with the weapon. He moves to lean back against one of the archway columns, and adds somewhat offhandedly -- signing this time, now that his hands are properly free: 'I didn't. I got to know him only recently.' One hand drops, fingertips tracing lightly against some of the fletching. "A chance, I suppose. Prometheus evidently could not discern any such abilities, and I gather their means of testing were -- extensive." His jaw has tightened slightly. "It would be unusual for Matthieu not to have noticed, all these years, also. But I have gotten well enough used to believing highly improbable things." Clint sets down the placebo arrow and his own bow so that he can accept Lucien's bow with both hands. He turns it over, then back, tracing his fingertips along the curve of the riser and along the elegant upper limb. His brows start to furrow when he gets to the tip. After inspecting the string notch from every angle he actually grips the bow and raises it to sighting position, running his fingers down along the string to the nocking points. "He's very accommodating, too." He darts an unreadable glance back at Lucien. "I hope he's a decent sort. I imagine the bar for being a decent parent is lower when the child starts out that relationship grown." He picks up the placebo arrow again and fits it to the bow, taking his time. "Whose word do you have that Prometheus couldn't figure out her power? That data is out there, but not necessarily easy to get hold..." He trails off when he draws, and eases back without loosing the arrow, adjusting his grip and trying again. "The thing about telepathy is, 'I'm not a telepath' is also a thought." He draws a third time, sights his shot, then lets it fly. The arrow destroys what's left of the two previous occupants of the bullseye and sinks in deep. "Holy shit. Holy shit. How is this possible? He shoots way faster than..." His amazement comes with a quiet chuff of laughter. "What's his name?" "No," Lucien is agreeing mildly, "It wasn't easy to get a hold of." He quirks an eyebrow up as Clint tests the weapon. "Are you calling my bow a slut?" The bow seems to glimmer again momentarily, in time with his pleased amusement. His fingertips are touching to his chest in an exaggeratedly feigned offense, before gesturing casually for the bow back. "I'll have you know Lightbringer is quite choosy about who he allows to fondle him." He curls his fingers in loose against his palm, inspecting his fingernails with a faint frown and tracing the pad of his thumb slowly back and forth against one neatly manicured nail. "Damien is -- complicated." This is slower, less sure. "I did not much want to get to know him, when first he turned up. I think I am glad enough that I had to do so, all the same." Clint plucks an arrow from his quiver, this time--a plain target arrow. "No, I'm calling your bow a sexy--" He breaks off and blinks rapidly at Lucien, then at the bow. "Lightbringer? As in Lucifer? Is your bow named after the literal Devil?" He sounds somehow more incredulous about this than the bow's physics-defying performance, which he is presumably of a mind to test again with a more aerodynamic arrow. When he tries to draw this shot, though, he only manages to pull the arrow back a few inches. He eases off and tries again, straining fruitlessly against the bowstring for a moment. "Alright, now that feels like the right weight for how fast you've been shooting. Does he not like being called 'the Devil'?" He returns the arrow for his quiver to obligingly tuck away with the others, and offers the bow back to Lucien with both hands. "Seriously, how the hell did you do that?" "'Complicated' sounds about par for your family's course. At least you have some who aren't embroiled in...well, this particular not-exactly-banal drama." His fingers play over the bowspring experimentally. "Maybe your mother is just that persuasive, and maybe I'm overestimating Fury's judgment." His shrug is a short, tight hitch. "But I'm not overestimating his paranoia, and it's wildly out of character for him to be so complacent towards an inexplicably charismatic woman's baseless claims about your mental state. Something's not adding up right here, and it's not just Lightbringer's speed or moodiness." "I didn't name him. As I understand it he took the name from --" Lucien hitches a moment in some contemplation of his phrasing, here, "-- one of his makers." He has been watching Clint's efforts now with some quiet amusement, and he does not actually take the bow back. He plucks one of his own arrows from its quiver (a short light thing that, like the bow, looks designed far more for aesthetics than function, colourful pearlescent feathers sleek against its shaft of fine dark wood, tipped in some unidentifiable black stone that glimmers faintly oilslick-rainbow in the light) and offers it to Clint with a go ahead nod. He himself is taking a seat on the bench, rubbing his palm slowly against his chin. "Terrifying as the prospect is, I almost hope you are right. Everyone seems to find her so charming that I feel quite insane trying to explain..." He trails off, and shakes his head with a small chuff of laugh. "-- actually, I rarely try to explain. Though now that you mention it, the Director did seem slightly aghast when I did. That was then, though." Clint's eyebrows hike up high. "...was one of his makers the literal Devil?" He accepts the arrow from Lucien, smiling bright. "Man, this takes me back. Barney used to make arrows with feathers and stone arrowheads sometimes when we were little. Only when we couldn't steal better ones, though, they were nowhere near as nice as this. Our ringmaster called them 'elf arrows'." He fits this elf arrow to Lightbringer, which he draws easily once again, and checks the fletching clearance before letting it fly. He shakes his head, amazed once more, lowers the bow, and turns back to Lucien. "I have no idea what 'insane' means, anymore, but I don't find her charming." His lips compress tightly. "Fury's hard to horrify, too. What did you explain?" "For aesthetic, they are unbeatable. -- Do you believe in the literal Devil?" is Lucien's non-reply, an unweighted curiosity in his look. His eyes lower, then, and he starts to reach for his bottle but then just folds his hands in his lap. "Just a little family history. -- I suppose the murder itself was not all that long ago, it just feels like --" this manages to be only a little wry, "-- another lifetime." Clint furrows his brows and shakes his head, but counterintuitively replies, "I guess? Should have asked Thor while I had the chance." His expression goes through a series of quick shifts, and settles on something like thoughtfulness. He moves the case of prototype arrows off the bench and sits down beside Lucien. "Fitzsimmons once told me physics doesn't know what time actually is, or whether it's even real. It sure as hell can't tell us if or how time flows in other universes, much less in this one." He taps his temple with an index finger. "I can deal with a couple of lifetimes worth of family history." "He will be back, I'm sure. At some suitably dramatic moment." Lucien shifts, just a little bit, angling on the bench to better face Clint. "My father says time is another story we tell ourselves. I am not sure that helps me have any better grasp of it, but it does feel less befuddling when it seems out of sync." For a stretch he is quiet. He picks his decanter back up, though he isn't drinking it, just running a finger over the rounded crystal facets. "I had her killed," he volunteers, eventually. "Some years ago. Hardly a leg to stand on, being miffed about the turnabout." Clint has been focusing hard, and does not stop when Lucien stops speaking. Finally, he punctuates his own quiet with, "Alright. So she killed you back, or..." His next breath comes short, and his eyes dip down to the stone floor. "I haven't murdered her yet, so I'm allowed to be miffed about the murderback." His fingertips search Lightbringer's riser for a maker's mark as his gaze, sharp and calm, lifts back to Lucien's face. "She took more from you than your life." "Oh, I think it was quite opportunism, not revenge. She had wanted me dead quite some time." Lucien's brow creases only faintly, and this small wrinkle soon irons itself back out. "At least she had since I stopped making her money. I think ultimately she was just quite grateful for a chance to turn Matthieu against me." Now he does unstopper the decanter, taking a large swig and passing it back to Clint. "-- in quite dramatic fashion. Apologies, you came here to shoot and instead I am..." This trails off as his eyes turn upward. "Making her money," Clint echoes flatly. "You left her when you were a kid. Matt, too. So it was him." He contemplates the borrowed bow still in his hands. "I could have gone shooting somewhere else. I came here for you. I asked you to tell me, and that's what you're doing. Most things aren't straightforward." He darts a glance downrange at the wreck of the two targets, then back at Lucien with a minute shrug. "But some things are." "I did. I spent the next years fighting to get the rest of my siblings out of her reach. She never -- with them she never --" Lucien shakes his head, and clasps his hands back together. "-- but it was no safe life all the same. The others thought me quite unreasonable, now, for holding the past against her when she's turned her life around." He sits up just a little straighter, and when he looks back to Clint there's a new intensity in his gaze. "-- if you are entertaining thoughts of killing her, please do not. I feel quite insane enough without her Jedi Mind Tricking you as well." "I was entertaining," Clint admits mildly. "I'm not a big fan of people who hurt kids or my friends, but like I said, most things aren't straightforward. I'd like to think she can't charm me from a bowshot away, but if she does have some kind of psionic ability, who the hell knows. If you don't want me taking that chance I won't. Besides, if she turned up dead or mysteriously vanished now, a lot of people would think you did it, Fury included." At that last thought he takes a drink and hands it back to Lucien without replacing the stopper. "And he knew? All of this, before he talked to her?" Lucien does replace the stopper, this time. "All of it." Clint takes a deep breath and holds it very briefly. "Alright. Okay." And then, at a very slight delay, softer, "Shit. I'm sorry. She did something to him. If not her then someone else, but he wouldn't treat you like that, not in his right mind." He takes another deep breath and sets his jaw. "I'm with you. I don't care what they say. I don't care what Fury says." He reaches out hesitantly, but there's nothing tentative in the solid weight of his hand on Lucien's shoulder once he's made contact. With his other hand he signs, small but emphatic, 'I see you.' | |
