Okay, this looks bad...

—

God, Tony loved whiskey. Fucking. Loved. Whiskey. These days he’s been trying to stay dry, only a few drinks a week, and while it resulted in a whole lot of twitchiness, that energy did end up pouring out into new projects, which, on the main, was good for both Tony, and for the company. He could deal with a little twitchiness. He’s dealt with worse. He took a slow sip and savored it, eyes closing briefly, before setting the glass down and stretching his arms up to crack his shoulders. “I’m old. I’m an old man, Barton,” he lamented with a groan, before his attention was drawn to the nervousness in Clint’s voice.

“You’re not old.” Clint scoffed as he took a sip of his beer. He nearly added you’ll NEVER get old, but thought that might be too morbid for current conversation. It was a dark thought, but entirely true, at least in Clint’s case. Once he joined SHIELD, Clint hadn’t expected to live long enough to face retirement. He was a great spy sure, one of the best around, but that didn’t mean mistakes wouldn’t be made. He slowed down as he got older, same as everyone (or almost everyone) and someday he’d be too slow. The fact didn’t make him sad, he just hoped that day would come later rather than sooner.

“Uhh...” He cleared his throat, and tapped the bottle of beer with his index finger. The trouble with being deaf was that one needed to maintain eye contact almost all the time, even in difficult or awkward conversations like this. He forced his eyes to stay on Tony, not wanting to miss a response, even though his eyes would rather be focused anywhere else. “I was wondering if maybe you could help me out?” He paused, then everything came spilling out of his mouth at once. “I haven’t had my hearing in a year, and I’ve been going to therapy and stuff for it, but it’s not healing as fast as I’d like it to. My doctor says I’ve got a very small percentage of it back, but that hearing aids probably wouldn’t be able to do much of anything for me right now, and that I need to be patient and just wait... But I don’t wanna wait anymore! And I was just hoping -- I mean, if you can’t, I get it, I know it’s not your area of expertise, and I can get by fine without ‘em but I just --” He gave Tony an apologetic look; he hated asking. “I was hoping maybe you could help make some hearing aids for me?”

God, Barton, Tony couldn’t help but burst out in a short, but genuine, laugh. “Well, Chunky, let’s go find us some PB&J, huh? It’s been a while.” He clapped his hand onto Clint’s shoulder once more with a mock-serious expression. “I’m feeling very much like I haven’t had a night out in far too long, and I’m supposed to have a whiskey in my hand at all times between six and twelve PM, doctor’s orders. Wouldn’t want to ignore them.” 

He chuckled as Tony practically pushed him out of the lab and into the elevator. It was nice to have this sense of normalcy with him, considering the last time they saw each other they had all nearly died. Normal was what he needed, it was what he supposed he’d been looking for when he left in the first place... But then again, he was an assassin for a living, worked with gods, and supersoldiers, and mutants, and was constantly helping save the world from both human and non-human threats -- what was normal, anyway?

“Barnes? Oh!” A flip had switched in his brain at the mention of the name. Tony could only mean Bucky Barnes. Clint didn’t know much about him really (he was too lazy to actually read SHIELD files, he usually just skimmed) other than he was Steve’s best friend before and during the war, went MIA, was presumed dead, turned into a weapon by Hydra, and was now... What? Living with The Avengers? Clint wouldn’t judge. He’d had more second chances than most people got and sure knew (however brief his experience was) just how terrible brainwashing and mind control could be. “Yeah... Yeah I’d like to meet him.”

Clint waited until they were situated in a nice little bar just a few blocks away from the tower, Tony with a whiskey in his hands and Clint with a beer before he brought up work again. It was easier to think of it as ‘work’ than what it really was -- a favor. Clint didn’t much like asking for help, he never had, and he felt a bit queasy asking Tony now for what felt like (quite frankly) a handout. Yet he was starting to feel desperate. He just couldn’t do things the way he needed to anymore, and one day he’d stop getting lucky and end up dead because of a stupid mistake.

“Hey uhh, can I ask you something?” he said, hesitantly.

He lifted his arms up over his head to stretch, and rolled his neck lazily. “You know, if I don’t quite hunching I’m gonna end up a crippled old man, and I since I intend to be flying my suit around until I’m dead, that is not acceptable. No bueno.” 

His hand flew out to press Barton’s back to the table with the gadget in it without even turning his head to look. “Contains acid, do not touch, you might hit the wrong button, and I like your hands the way they are, not melted onto my floor.” He flashed a grin Clint’s way.

Clint feigned surprise at Tony’s invitation. “You? Leave the lab? You feelin’ okay buddy? Do I need to call a doctor?” He grinned again. Clint had a feeling it was more than likely that Tony would be flying his suit around until the day he died, although that day would likely come sooner than him growing old; he was sure the same could be said for him, and that he was more likely to die on a mission than old and in his sleep. The thought didn’t depress him, it was simply a fact of life, and certainly didn’t mean he intended to go any time soon.

He dropped the device he had been playing with back on the table as Tony pushed him away. He looked down at his hands. “Yeah, I think I like them that way too...”

He looked up to find Tony speaking again. He had missed the first part of what was said, but thought he could figure it out from the context.

--sid arrows? Talk about [bringing?] death --on the enemy, [?].

“Acid arrows?” he asked with a furrowed brow. He scratched his ear. “Yeah! That’d be... Really cool, actually! As long as they didn’t, you know, explode in my quiver or anything.”

“Good to see you too, Hank.” he said with a grin. Clint sniffed the air, his smile faltering only the slightest bit as a whiff of whatever Hank was cooking met his nostrils. It smelled like eggs, that much was all right, and something... Not meat. He glanced at the stove, and spotted cubes of white something-or-other mixed in the pan. Tofu. He held back a grimace. He turned his focus instead back to Hank and Lucky, who looked a little wary of Hank. Clint didn’t think the dog had ever seen anyone quite like him before.

“That’s Lucky.” he said. Lucky sniffed curiously at Hank. After a few moments he seemed to realize it must be okay, for his tail began to wag once again and he licked happily at Hank’s fingers. Clint grinned.

“No rest for the wicked though, as they say.”

He let out an embarrassed sort of laugh, and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well... I’m sure I’ll get a slap on the wrist or something for being gone so long. I didn’t exactly get permission to go.” It had never crossed his mind once that perhaps he should have stayed, or at least come back sooner, or at the very least let SHIELD keep tabs on his location... Okay, maybe it had crossed his mind, and maybe he had chosen to be selfish instead. He felt a small twinge of regret before reminding himself, Hey, you almost died bro! You deserve to run away with your dog and chill on the beach for a month. He cleared his throat. “But uhh, I’m back now! And just in time, seems like.”

He frowned ever so slightly. Couldn’t bad guys just give the world a breather before jumping right into the next catastrophe?

Clint followed Hank out of the kitchen and down into the living room. “Oh no, I’m good. We already ate.” he lied. He thought it might be rude to say I’d rather drink rat poison, even if that was how he felt about tofu. Tofu... Why couldn’t it just be meat?

He held up a wrench in greeting. “Haha, Barton, very funny. I’m working on one just for you to remind you not to be such a smart ass.” His lips quirked up at the edges as he whirled around on his rolling stool. 

He gave Tony a friendly pat on the back in greeting as well. He grinned brightly as the other man teased about his appearance, and rolled his eyes as he prodded questions about the women. Clint liked to flirt, sure, but not nearly as much as Stark, and he had to admit he wasn’t nearly as good at it either. He supposed a good amount of that had to do with the fact Clint Barton just wasn’t a household name the way Tony Stark was. He tended to be met with “You’re who?” and blank stares whenever he introduced himself as an Avenger, not that this ever bothered him -- well, sometimes it bothered him. Recognition was always nice. Anonymity when he really just wanted to go out and buy some coffee and not have anyone talk to him was good too. He liked having both.

He was losing his train of thought.

“A few.” he replied with a chuckle. “Except most of them were into yoga, and didn’t quite have half a brain, so I mostly passed on that.”

He stuck his hands in his pockets, and glanced around the workshop. It was messy, but no messier than usual. Organized chaos as he liked to call it, as Stark seemed to be able to find whatever he was looking for much more easily in his messes than Clint could find anything at all in his own. “Been keeping busy?” he asked, leaning against one of the counter tops, and picking up a harmless enough looking device. “Whatcha workin’ on?”

The story of what happened to he man she had her a million and one times it seemed. there was a part of her that did not understand why they were getting something that was cursed. Most of her was all for the adventure it would bring.

She did not follow Oliver when they got in the tavern, deciding to get some food first before sitting down. She watched as a coupe left, drunk off their asses, leaving mostly uneaten food on the table. She grinned as she grabbed a couple of the items, and headed toward the table Oliver sat down at. She pulled a chair over and placed her food on the table.

“Help yerselves.” She said before digging into a plate of fried potatoes.

The man had such a sadness in his eyes that she could not look at him. Although she carried weapons with her, she rarely had to use them, others seemed to do more of the killing, and she was perfectly okay with that arrangement. “Nice to meet ya, I’m Darcy. Sorry to be intruding on ye.” Darcy said, before going back to her food.

He ignored the food, although he appreciated the gesture, and he turned his attention back to Barton. “I want to hear about what happened to you, to your ship,” he said, “and I want to buy your map. If it’s cursed – I want to know.” His eyes were diamond-hard, expression having gone back to grim, now that he had adjusted to Darcy being here. The sale of a map might be a casual enough thing, but if it really was cursed? That was something else. There were always stories of curses, of witches, of dark magic worked to protect the darkest metal of all - gold - and none of those stories were ever true. There were stories about ghostly ships with demon crews - lies. There were stories about men who gave up their humanity, sacrificing everything for one simple purpose, who devoted their existence to both living and breaking their own curses…

And maybe one of those stories was true. Maybe Queen had a reason to be intrigued by dark magic. 

He allowed himself a few more bites before even acknowledging that the gentleman had spoken. “My ship an’ my crew went down in a storm.” he said through a mouthful of food. “Swallowed up by the sea. Storm came out of nowhere. Lightning flashed above us an’ the main sail caught fire. Wind and water swirlin’ ‘round us, like the sea knew where we was headed, and weren’t keen on letting us get there alive.” He looked darkly at Oliver as he paused to take another drink of rum.

“Don’t know how I got outta there with my life -- none o’ the others did. Maybe the map didn’t want to be lost. Maybe it saved my life so that some other poor bastard could sacrifice his crew to the depths... Maybe I just got lucky, and that thing in my pocket ain’t nothin’ more’n a scrap of paper.” If his colleague’s eyes were hard as diamonds, Clint’s eyes had become cold as ice with a grim expression that nearly mirrored the man across from him. Of course Clint wanted to get rid of the ruddy thing, but he wouldn’t do so without a fair warning to the buyer. “Is it cursed? Well, no one can say for sure, now can they? All I can tell ye is that bad things happen to those who come by this map-- aye, we wasn’t the first crew tempted by the gold. Maybe it’s all just superstition, but ye can’t deny every crew that’s gone after it has ended up dead before they can reach their treasure.” He grinned solemnly, and sat back in his chair. “More’n likely t’be the death of me one day, don’tcha think?”

He ripped another piece of bread between his teeth and washed it down with another swig of rum before he continued talking. “You still interested? Or did my ghost stories put the fear o’death in ye?”

“It’s a trashy sort of friendship,” Matt answered nonchalantly, walking up to join them. “He’s got very sharp eyes – almost as sharp as those arrows of yours – and he’s come in useful to me a time or two. The other day, I was driving down the interstate, and – what?” He could feel Oliver’s look, part incredulous and part almost ready to believe that Matt would be crazy enough to do it. 

Much as he liked Matt, the man made Oliver uncomfortable. It was a subtle thing, but it was undeniably there. Something about Matt kept him permanently unsettled, like there was always some other set of rules being played by, rules nobody would take the time to explain to him. There was a hell of a lot going on with Matt Murdock, enough to keep the man burning inside, every minute of every day, even with all of his sweet smiles and bad jokes and dopey laughter.

“You weren’t – really driving, were you?”

“Jeez. Clint, where do you find these people?” Nevermind the fact that Matt had been the one to find Oliver first, in this case, and was wearing Ollie’s jeans and his brown jacket – it was more fun to blame Clint. “I have a license, Oliver.”

Oliver blinked. “Oh. That’s..” 

“To practice law.” 

Oliver rolled his eyes. “Okay. I get it. You’re in a mood. Alright, Matt.” He held up a hand to gesture them to wait, then went down and retrieved his arrows. Keeping one out of the quiver, Oliver took his bow again, aimed, released –

The arrow landed firmly, dead center of the target.

“If you can do that – and you’ve got my entire quiver to go through – I’ll buy you breakfast.”

“Clint, too?”

“Clint, too.”

Why he was playing dumb at this moment however, even he wasn’t entirely sure; Maybe he just sympathized with wanting to feel normal and anonymous.

He smirked, but stayed silent as  Matt teased his friend. “In all fairness,” Clint chuckled. “Our relationship would be a lot less garbage if we didn’t end up in so many dumpsters.” After that quip he merely stood back, end of his bow resting against the toe of his sneaker, as Matt and Oliver squabbled as if they’d known each other a decade. It wasn’t really until the proposed shooting competition with a blind guy and the prospect of free food that he really started to pay any attention to the conversation.

The conflict was getting worse and worse each day. What the hell was Andrew thinking? Going after a man like Fontaine. It was his fault that the once promising city of Rapture was on the brink of a civil war. Just on the brink, someone will fire the first shot that will rain blood onto the underwater city and the innocents will be lost. It was bad enough that most that had come below were seeking a new lease on life. Trying to find better footing under the sea than they did on the surface. As for Junho? He only came to live in the city because of Sullivan, Head of security for Ryan’s private forces. Both of them worked as police officers above until Sullivan got fired for accepting bribes. Anyone who knew him would know it was a lie, but harsh times. 

With nothing else to loose, Junho Lee joined him and has been working as security around the city when needed. But he was digressing. The asian man walked around the Welcoming Center, sharp eyes watchful as citizens continued to complain about the bathyspheres being shut down. Complete chaos. Other residents continued on with their lives. Marveling at the plasmid’s on display in the Gatherer’s garden. Those damn things made his skin crawl. Too many times he had encountered spliced up enemies during small skirmishes. All because of Dr. Tenenbaum, the discoverer of ADAM which led to plasmids and so much more. 

So much was going on. Not only was he tasked in keeping things from getting out of hand and defending the saner citizens from the crazed men of Fontaine but the possible chance that one of Lamb’s followers might do something stupid even though she had been quiet in Persephone Penal Colony. 

“Back again Junho?” Called out one of his coworkers. 

Looking over, he grinned at the man and nodded. “Yeah, but it looks like you got it under control”

“Of course I do, just a simple protest.”

He chuckled and moved on. Deciding to make his way to another section of the city to check on things. Something was going to happen….and it was going to be bad. Like a domino effect. Ascending the steps, Junho made his way to the elevators, stepping in and about to select the floor he wanted to go to but paused to keep the doors open a moment longer as someone approached. 

Clint was a smuggler, though if he had it his way he wouldn’t be for much longer. The job was well paying sure, but didn’t pay well enough for the level of risk that went with it. Most smugglers didn’t last long, but that wasn’t really by choice as much as it was that they slipped up, got caught, and became subject to the worst of capital punishment. It made Clint shudder just thinking about it. It was an honorless job anyway, an honorless life, and an honorless way to die. He wouldn’t allow himself to become subject to that fate; he had too much pride to have his corpse be a mangled one.

Fontaine wasn’t exactly the most popular leader these days anyway. They said civil war was coming to the city, and Clint for one didn’t have much faith in his side. Could it really even be called ‘his side?’ Of course he worked for the man and he was grateful for the job that had kept him mostly off the streets, but did he really believe in all of Fontaine’s hooey? Well, if he thought of it as hooey, then he was sure he didn’t much believe in it... But then again, he wasn’t sure he much believed in Ryan’s gospel either. Some Utopia this turned out to be, he often found himself thinking darkly.

The elevator doors closed, and the floor shuddered as it began moving upward. Clint glanced at the man next to him once again. “Nice weather we’re having, eh?” he quipped. It was his favorite joke.

There was a ding from a bell, and the doors opened once again.

This time, it was easier to focus. This time, he found that perfect silence and just let it envelop him. He let his thoughts wander as the rest of his mind went quiet and relaxed, the calm energy sinking into his body. He took his time firing, just enjoying the slow, simple moves, the elegance inherent in doing it well, in focusing on leaving the arrows all touching, just barely. As he did, he remembered last night, the night before it, and the one before that… He’d come to New York just to get away, needing the time alone after a particular occurrence in Starling, but when he met a violent little ball of rage one night, in a cliche dark alley… They’d hit it off, oddly enough. Matt Murdock was a reckless, furious, dangerous warrior with a will far stronger than his body would ever be - which, in Oliver’s estimation, was saying something - but he was also good company… and good to train with. He was leaving Matt exhausted, he knew, but Matt was also getting some good hits in..

Things were a quiet, pleasant, crystal-clear blur for Oliver. He enjoyed the sensation of feeling everything, hearing everything, brief as it was. When he fired his next-to-last arrow, he didn’t call hold – he didn’t want to interrupt the other archer until he, too, was ready. He’d already interrupted once.

But, as luck would have it, he didn’t have to interrupt at all. Shortly after Clint was ready to collect again, a man spoke up from behind them:

“Impressive,” Matt said, from his place standing against the wall. He was wearing Oliver’s clothes, his red glasses, and a smirk. “I’ve never seen such skill.”

Oliver flipped him off with a quiet laugh. Matt made a face, well-aware of what Oliver was doing, but he seemed ready to laugh, too. 

“Please ignore my friend,” Oliver said to Clint as the two of them walked down towards the targets. “He thinks he’s hilarious.”

.... And then Matt showed up.

Clint liked Matt. In truth he didn’t know him all that well, but the few times they had interacted, Clint had always ended up with a smirk on his face. Matt was great at banter, and anyone with sass like that was all right in Clint’s book. He grinned even now, just at the sight of him as he turned to look at their newfound guest. He was just about to respond to Matt’s snide remark, but was cut off by the stranger in the other lane. Clint whipped his head to look at him, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“He--” Clint looked back and forth between the two of them. “You don’t gotta-- That’s Matt.” he said, pointing to Matt. Smooth, Barton. He shook his head quickly and tried again. “I mean, I know him. He is hilarious... Sometimes. If not a complete ass.” he grinned again. He put his bow on the rack in front of him and crossed over to the stranger’s lane, one hand outstretched. “My name’s Clint. Clint Barton.”

Captain Queen of the Death Arrow wasn’t known for kindness or patience. Granted, not many pirates were, but some were more fun than others. Some could be good company; some, a person could work with. Oliver Queen was not one of them. His reputation was simple: murder. He could be trusted, if he gave his word, but if he lost his patience, if he was tested, or if someone was fool enough to cross him? Oliver killed them. His eyes had been hardened long ago, likely by whatever story had scarred his body, and his heart had seemingly turned to stone right along with them. That was why nobody bothered him when he wandered alone through Tortuga’s streets, despite the fact that the port had gotten progressively worse since Disney released a major motion picture, putting it on ye olde charts. 

The bars never closed here, morning, noon, not even on Sundays, and so despite the sun being high, the streets still reeked of the drunken men and women laughing and drinking and fucking and killing. They had their haven, which was more than most people in the world could say. It might not be a beautiful freedom, but it was freedom that even Oliver could appreciate seeing. 

It didn’t take long to find the bar Clint Barton was rumored to be in. When Oliver walked in, the place was a little danker and quieter than others, but he still spotted the muscular form slumped over at a corner table. Candles guttered, yet to be changed out from last night, and more sunlight came in through the gaps in the poorly constructed walls than they’d offer, anyway.

Oliver walked up to the table.

“Heard your ship had some bad luck,” he said to Clint, hand on the back of a chair. “Got some stories to tell, friend?” Oliver pulled out the chair and sat, watching Clint with his usual wariness, trying to tone down the hostility. Supposedly, this poor bastard wanted to unload a treasure map at a good price as quickly as possible, but just outright saying sell me your damned map was a bit rude. A drink or two first would see things in a better light – and if the bastard had lost his entire ship, his crew, his world? 

He had floated ashore on a bit of wood from the wrecked ship, bearing nothing but the clothes on his back and the map in his pocket. More dumb luck had hidden him from the soldiers of Nassau before he awoke beneath a dock to the sounds of happy shouting and boots clamoring against the wood panels over his head. He managed to sneak into town and steal enough money to barter his way onto a ship headed for Tortuga. Had circumstances been different, he may have been happy to sell that map to the highest bidder and fall into early retirement but now? Now things were different. Now all he wanted was to get rid of it for good and drink to forget his past sorrows.

Well, he had the drinking bit down anyway. He put the word out regarding what he was trying to get rid of and hadn’t had any real offers yet, which only concerned him a little. Gave him plenty of time to drink while he waited.

He was holed up in a little bar in Tortuga now, and had adopted a dark corner table as his own. He paid little attention to the music that was played, and ignored any offer from a woman to keep him company (for now, anyway). He simply sat and drank day in and day out, and waited for something to happen... And then something finally did.

Clint glanced away from his near empty bottle of rum at the sound of another man’s voice. He looked blearily up at the figure hovering over him. “Aye, y’could say tha’.” he said hoarsely. It had been quite some time since he’d said more than two words to someone. Something about the look of the man told Clint he wasn’t much interested in hearing his story, but if there was also a chance he could pawn off that filthy map on the man then he didn’t much care. He gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit yourself down if ya like. Might as well pull up a chair for y’friend as well.” He added, nodding to the woman just behind the stranger.

After a week in New York City, Oliver needed an outlet. Not to say he hadn’t at least sort of enjoyed training with his new friend - enjoyed might be a strong word - but he wanted the quiet and the calm of his bow. So, leaving his exhausted friend still curled up and passed out in the other room, Oliver got up and dressed. A quick search on his phone told him here to find the nearest range (indoor, but beggars couldn’t be choosers) and so he went. It was a cold morning and rain was coming down hard; maybe it was better that it was inside, he thought, with a grim amusement over the insincerity of that thought. 

After going through the rules with the girl at the desk, Oliver paid the guest fees and signed in. He was assigned a lane – but when he got down there, he wondered why they’d bothered. There was only one other person shooting today, a guy who looked like he knew how to laugh. Oliver unzipped the case and took his bow out. He took his time checking it before he strung it. It had been a while since he’d used the old, simple recurve, but he was glad that she was the one he’d brought. 

Hearing a solid thud drew his attention back to the other archer and Oliver grew still, quiet. Actually taking note of the guy’s form, his attention was completely arrested. The man was good. Very good. He made it look so easy, so natural; Oliver wondered if it was the same with him, ever. His eyes searched the stranger’s face with a newfound respect, perhaps even a hint of admiration, before he turned to his own target. 

it was relaxing. The pull and almost immediate release, the feeling - always almost a physical one - of seeing the arrow hit the target exactly where he wanted it. He went at a slow, relaxed pace, happy to go through the entire quiver (save one arrow), but when the other man called Hold to retrieve his, Oliver immediately put his bow up. 

“Hold,” he agreed, and set the arrow he’d been about to fire back into the quiver, hanging where it did on the post. He carefully set his bow on the hooks above, then walked down the range as the other guy did, to the targets. For a moment, Oliver didn’t think he was going to say anything. He thought he’d just ignore him, not actively try to be social (considering how well that always went)… but then his mouth betrayed him:

“You’re incredible,” Oliver said - and immediately hoped it didn’t come off as an attempted pick-up. He probably looked like trash this morning. His clothes hadn’t been dry from the laundry yet, so he was wearing his friend’s pants – and they were even tighter than his own. Tight black leather (the only one he’d thrown at Ollie, with a delighted little snicker) pants, an equally tight black t-shirt, and a floppy, ridiculous purple hoodie with a giant eye or something on the back and the words Welcome to Night Vale. Whatever that was. Matt loved it, and Ollie didn’t have a damn clue just what the hell it was, but he’d been grateful for the loaners… until he realized he probably looked like he’d just wandered out of a drinking binge (at least the bruises were all covered up), and that was probably exactly what Matt had intended. Little fucker. Matt and his smirk. Well, if this guy thought he was trying to hit on him, Matt was going to get an earful later. 

No fancy scope, no exploding, electric, putty bursting tips, no mechanized quiver, no holographic enemies or moving targets -- just a singular, still focal point, his old bow from his time at Carson, and a quiver of arrows with no fancy add ons. It was refreshing.

He knew a great place, a little far from his neighborhood, but he never complained about that. It really felt like getting away. He was on good terms with the owners, and was glad they were willing to keep it hush hush that their archery range was Hawkeye’s range of choice. It was never particularly crowded there either, and this morning was no different. Perhaps it was the weather keeping everyone away, but he had been there for nearly a half hour already by himself before someone else finally walked in and joined him. Clint hardly paid him any mind, although he couldn’t help but notice the man’s strange clothes... In truth, they weren’t all that strange for New York City, but they looked more like they were meant for a night out at a club than a morning out at a shooting range.

Maybe the clothes were his good luck charm, or maybe they helped him focus were the only explanations Clint had for it, because the man certainly seemed to know what he was doing. He couldn’t watch him too closely without turning around entirely (and to be honest, he wasn’t all that interested in watching him anyway) but the little that he did see was pretty damn good for a local shmuck straight off the streets. Clint called “Hold,” and went to collect his arrows. He looked around in surprise as the man spoke.

“Oh.” he wasn’t sure what to make of the comment. Now that he got a good look at him, the clothes didn’t seem to match the face or attitude of the man very well, and that compliment -- well, was it just a compliment? Clint hoped so. It was too early in the morning for anything else, in his opinion. “Uhh, thanks. “You too. I mean, you’re not bad. Just from, ya know,” he gestured at the other man’s target. “Your grouping.”