#olivia 1

“Your aim’s not half bad,” Clint noted. He was eating a donut, watching her take on two thugs. He had been drawn by the thwang! of a bowstring, a sound that he could hear in his dreams. He’d recognize it anywhere, and he recognized skill too. “Who taught you?” he asked, wiping donut onto his shirt. 

“Nah,” Clint replied, yanking the bolt out of the wall beside him. “Devil’s got way worse aim than that, trust me.” It took some effort, but he managed to yank the bolt out, wiping it off on his pants leg before holding it out to her. “I assume that was meant to be a warning shot,” he said, arching a brow. “I don’t blame you. I don’t exactly look like I belong up here, do I?” Gone were the days when he showed up in full uniform and tactical gear, with a comm in his ear buzzing from requests for recon. Now he just had some sweatpants and a hood, his old bow slung across his shoulders. A quiver of trick arrows at his feet as he kept watch on the street below. “I own the place,” he explained. “It’s a long story, I don’t even know most of it myself. But I’m watching over it while this... mess goes down.” He sighed, and gestured with the bolt. “This is yours. I’m not gonna hurt you. You’re looking to help, right?” It was a safe bet to make. She had the look.