ArchivedLogs:Shots

Shots
Dramatis Personae Clint, Jax
In Absentia	2016-07-31 "You know, you're not allowed to bring me weapons."
Location <NYC> SHIELD HQ - Interview Room
The room is small, but nicely appointed. The walls are painted a neutral buff color, the furniture light-colored maplewood and upholstered in earth tones. Here and there, little splashes of brighter green trim and edging pop in unexpected places. There is the expected table and straight-backed chairs near the door, though there is a chess board built into the tabletop and neat drawers with chess and checkers pieces along the side. A brown L-shaped couch occupies one corner, bracketing an oval glass-topped coffee table with a matching armchair. Nearby, a sideboard supports an arcane computerized coffee machine as well as a simple pitcher of water on a tray with cups. A wide window admits ample natural light during the day and affords a view of the midtown skyline. All of this notwithstanding, the door locks from the outside and is always guarded. The city is still baking under a heat wave, heavy and relentless. It's slowed the pace of life around town, people a little less hurried in their travel, a little less urgent in their work. Within the air-conditioned cool of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters it is a lazy Sunday afternoon -- weekend or not it's never quite /empty/ around here, but the work getting done is happening on a more languid schedule. In the interview room that has, for the past while, been repurposed to be Jackson and Ryan's visitation room, there's not really any work happening at all. A sign has been tape up beside the door -- over where it says 'Interview Room 2-B' now a square of paper reads, 'Enemy of the Stateroom', and underneath that, 'Have fun*!' and in very tiny print below that, '*of a non-terroristic variety.' Inside the room, a few low-level agents are lounging on the couch, chatting quietly over coffee and a plate of cookies. The coffeetable holds several kinds of cookies on a large tray, next to a large pitcher of lemonade. A whiteboard hung on one wall has a schedule posted for the upcoming performance schedule of Ryan Black's AntiCap(tivity) tour. Jackson, at the moment, is finishing up a late lunch -- broccoli and mushroom stir-fry -- tucked away at one end of the conference table, his mostly-finished food set to one side and his sketchpad out in front of him. The door opens for Clint and closes behind him, and many pairs of eyes skid to him, lingering longer than they generally have for the other recent arrivals. He's dressed down today, a purple heather t-shirt that reads 'Magic to Do!' in glossy red and blue metallic letters and comfortable, well-fitting jeans. He carries a large black duffle back over one shoulder and a garish purple and pink plastic sports bottle in the opposite hand. "Good afternoon," he announces quietly, making his way to the table and tipping an invisible hat at Jax. "Mind if I join you?" Jax glances up, pencil twirling between his fingers as his eye flicks to Clint. A small tug pulls at his lips as he looks at the other man's shirt, then up to his face. His own hand lifts -- a large black Stetson, trimmed in metallic purple, appears on his head where none was before, long enough for him to tip it back to Clint. "Feel free." He tips his hand out to an empty chair. "Y'don't believe in weekends?" Clint allows a small tick of a smile at the ephemeral hat and sits, lowering his duffle bag into the chair beside him. "This place has a good indoor archery range." Then, as if he felt this answer too abstruse, he gives his bag a pat. "Too hot to be shooting outside today." His eyes dart to Jax's sketching. "How are you doing?" "Hear the whole East Coast's been baking half the month." Jax's wince is, perhaps, sympathetic. He slides his sketchpad to one side -- its current image depicts some sort of rally, a lot of people in stars-and-stripes decorated clothing with signs exhorting the viewer to help Make America Great Again and Keep Our Country Strong, Blue Lives Matter and Stop Mutant Terror. Facing off against them is Spencer armed with an armful of Pokeballs; the one he has just thrown is morphing into a toothily grinning sharkpup eying the crowd with a hungry glee. Jax draws his food back close, shrugging a shoulder. "Well, I was thinking of going to the beach," he replies lightly, "but I figured a day like this it'd be crowded as heck so why not stay in -- again." Clint watches Jax speak intently before dropping his eyes to study the sketch. His expression is blank and inscrutable, but the very slight nod of his head looks approving enough. "Well, since you /have/ decided to stay in," he says evenly, "I might as well run this proposition by you. Rumor has it you're the man to see about a tattoo. I understand, of course, if you'd rather not talk business on the Sabbath." "I'm glad t'see word is spreading already. I ain't even had time to get business cards printed or nothing. Agent Barbetta seemed mad happy with his prison ink, though." There's a faint glimmer of amusement in Jax's smile. "What did you have in mind?" "Word of mouth is immensely effective, especially when backed by a walking advertisement." Clint takes a long drink from his sports bottle. His eyes flick down to his right forearm. "Arrows," he says. "A handful of arrows along the inner forearm. Not very challenging, I suppose, but...I /really/ like arrows." Jax's brows lift, his smile warming. "I don't always need somethin' to be complicated. Just for you to love it." There are already a flurry of arrows taking flight along Clint's forearm -- shifting intermittently through a variety of length, of colour, of fletching, as Jax's fingers drum against the table. "Did you already have something specific in mind? By way of design? Size? Colour? How you want them positioned? Anything? Or just -- arrows, go wild." "Arrows can be /pretty/ complicated, but I didn't have anything specific in mind, no." The corner of Clint's mouth twitches as he watches the arrows move across his skin. "Well. Purple and black vanes. Other than that? Arrows, go wild." He tilts his head. "I can show you some of my arrows, if it helps." "You know," Jackson says this very seriously to Clint, eye wider and expression deadpan, "you're not allowed to bring me weapons." "What?!" Clint's eyebrows raise up high. "Not even the ones with the big red boxing glove heads?" "I might do somethin' /dangerous/ with them," Jackson explains. The arrows on Clint's arm have settled into an asymmetrical rush down his skin, black vanes with subtle purple highlights in their feathers. One of the arrowheads shifts, now, point replaced by a large red boxing glove on a coiled spring. "Though I could check again, might could be there's an 'if it's funny' exception for punchy arrows. What else you got in there?" "Coulson would let me if I made puppy dog eyes at him." Clint pauses to appreciate Jax's rough drafts. "That looks nice. I have net arrows, tranq arrows, grappling arrows, flaming arrows, boomerang arrows...even some arrows with actual pointy bits." "Coulson can't be as much of a pushover as he comes off or he wouldn't be workin' /here/." Jax's nose wrinkles up, a crooked smile quirking his lips and his pierced brows hitching up. "Or are your puppy dog eyes just /that/ good?" The arrows on Clint's arm are shifting again -- one growing a thinner needle-point tip, one with a knobbed point at its end that caps three split clawed prongs ready to spring open. "-- I ain't sure I can properly picture what a boomerang arrowhead would even hafta look like." There's a fascinated note in his voice. "How does that even /work/?" "He's not a pushover." Clint gives a small but decidedly bemused chuckle. "But he /is/ perhaps startlingly reasonable. Even setting aside the issue of your inner light, he has, after all, permitted you kitchen knives, which are more effective weapons on their own than arrows without a bow. And...I /do/ give good puppy dog eyes, I suppose." He allows a very shallow shrug. "That's basically what the grappler looks like, yeah. The boomerang head is a barrel ringed with two rows of diagonal slits. The slits alter airflow around the arrow, makes it curve to the left or right." Small twitch of a smile. "They're not joking when they say I can shoot around corners." "It's well more'n I got used t'expecting from anyone in government-type positions," Jax admits, a slight flush creeping into his cheeks. "He talks to me like a person an' everything." His eye is widening, a faint glow shimmering around him even as one of the arrows is shifting its point into a slitted barrel. '/Really/?' This sign is very emphatic. "No /kidding/? Oh, gosh, my pups would /flip/ if they could practice shooting with /you/. That sounds like a /magic/." 'Really,' Clint repeats the sign calmly, though he cannot quite keep the smile from his face. It's hard to tell whether he's smiling at the compliment or the boomerang arrow on his arm. "It's only the magic of physics, though. While I do not know your children /personally/, I strongly suspect they'd not like me half as much once they knew what I did for a living." His tone is calm and neutral, no hint of resentment. "Physics weren't really never my strong point." Jax's blush deepens, the pink creeping up to his ears. "My kid, though, she's brilliant in all that science -- everything. May as /well/ be magic in my eyes." His teeth click against one lip ring, wiggling at it as his head tips to one side. His eye settles on Clint pensively. "... what /do/ you do for a living?" "I'm not exactly a scientist, myself, but a lifetime of wacky archery has given me a good sense for classical Newtonian physics, at least. I'm totally lost once you get into particle physics or quantum mechanics." Clint tilts his head slightly and holds Jax's gaze. "Well, practically speaking I'm mostly paid to work out, with occasional bodyguard duty, but...I /am/ a field agent for an agency effectively tasked with preventing mutant terrorism." "A whole lifetime?" Jax's fingers flutter upward to cover his smile, lips curling up in barely-contained glee. "Like -- like from the second," he drops his hand a moment later with a blush, repeating, "Like from the second you was born you had a loaded bow?" His smile fades slightly after this, and he reaches for his chopsticks, plucking up a sauce-heavy piece of broccoli. "You are. I guess it's just been hard for me to get a picture of what that means in -- practical terms. Spying on Steve all the time is probably real helpful and all but he ain't even a mutant." He shrugs a shoulder, brows pulling together. "I can't really speak to how my kids'd feel about it, though. They do like arrows a whole awful lot." "Feels like it sometimes." Clint's voice is as passive as ever--almost bland. "I surely have screwed up just about everything I loved. Generally not with arrows." Here he pauses a moment, head tilted in thought. "Though I /have/ shot my brother. By accident." Another pause. "Several times." He sighs, looks down at his hand. Closes it and opens it again. "Well, we're meant to stop terrorism that employs any extraordinary means--whether mutant powers, /non/-mutant powers, or bleeding edge technology. But right now mostly we monitor, and not just Steve." He shakes his head slightly. "Well, if they ever asked me to take them shooting, I guess I'll know. I should let you finish your food." The small shimmer of glow fades from around Jax, his head bowing slightly in time with a quiet, "-- oh." His nose wrinkles, blush tinting darker. "I'll work up a few designs an' get them to you for feedback. An' there's plenty of more stirfry in the kitchen if you -- get hungry." With a small, sheepish half-smile: "Cookies, too." Clint signs 'thank you' decisively, then braces his hands on the table, rising. "I'll send you pictures of my weirder arrows, and, if Coulson lets me, I'll just give you a handful for reference. No hurry, in any case." His eyes flick to what remains of Jax's food, and he gives a small nod. "I think I will go help myself, actually." He shoulders his duffle, and for a moment looks like he's seriously considering saying something else. But at length he just signs a casual 'goodbye' and ambles out again.