As a general rule, Remy respects photographers. Remy, certainly, doesnât have what it takes to do that end of the modeling business, and most of Remyâs⌠skill at modeling comes from the genepool rather than Remyâs own hard work. Still, he does tire of meeting them, especially the more star-struck ones. This one doesnât seem much different, except that itâs Natasha introducing them. Natasha, who once knocked out Vogueâs in-house photographer for touching her.
The photographer, Clint, is clutching a good camera on a worn strap, with clothing that had probably seen better days before he even got to the Salvation Army.
"Remy LeBeau," Remy says, and does his best not to sound tired. "Always good tâ meet a friend of Natashaâs." Heâd really just come for a coffee, but at least this photographer probably wouldnât want an autograph or anything.
(Remy, of course, has not looked at his own timer in more than ten years â Jean-Luc forbid it, and the habit stuck. Heâd always been told as a kid that his soulmate would probably weep to discover that theyâd been stuck with him.)
Remy. Natasha had only ever referred to him as 'my model friend' or 'the guy I told you about.' Remy. The name sinks into his skin and sticks there, keeps itself put. Clint doesn't foresee a time when it won't be there, just under the surface, for him to turn over and over in his mind.
And that's fucking terrifying.
Clint can feel Natasha's eyes on him, because she's seen his timer, and he knows that she knows because she's Natasha and she knows everything, but he keeps his eyes on Remy.
He decides not to say anything about his timer, because Remy didn't, but he can feel the words on the tip of his tongue. ("Hi, it's nice to meet you, I think you're my soulmate.") Maybe Remy's timer hasn't hit zero yet, and Clint is destined to be one of those people, whose soulmates love someone else.
The system is fucked a lot of the time, and Clint knows this. His parents weren't exactly outstanding examples of the perfect soulmates.
"Hey," he says instead, eyes searching. He doesn't know what he's looking for, but the piece of something that's always been missing seems closer than ever, and his heart is beating painfully. His voice is tight, polite smile forced, "Could say the same t'you. Clint Barton, I'm a photographer." The light catches on his very obvious camera and he thinks, I am also an idiot.Â
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