thearena | semi-open; gone, like it was destined

Entry tags:

semi-open; gone, like it was destined

Who| Clint and OPEN, plus some closed starters
What| Clint goes feasting on Wednesday, then runs away from his well-meaning team. Hi-jinks ensue.
Where| Avenger HQ, the Castle, the Forest.
When| Week 2, Wednesday and Friday
Warnings/Notes| Lame jokes, a master assassin being a loser, language, ect ect.

i. feasting

Even in the castle, the stench of rotting bodies has dug in. Clint can't exactly say it's a new scent, because he's lived a life of death since he was still more kid than adult, but this is so overpowering as to be impossible to get used to. And believe him, he's tried. He's scouted the castle, the surrounding land, and nobody where he is, the scent of death is as constant as it was when he started.

It's wearing on him, cutting through the hunger in his belly, weighing heavily. Clint tries to eat, because he must, but it is little more than nibbles. Mere bites of food and water when he can force himself to, even as his stomach churns. He does not manage much, and it is bad enough that he vomits, once. Stops himself from trying again, if only to save what little he has.

It's only been a couple days, but even a couple days in the Arena without food could be deadly. Luck is on his side though. Clint has allies, even if he is starting to feel stifled under the protection, and he hasn't been wounded beyond the still healing mess of his knee. When the feast is announced, well, it's with grateful relief. Sure, it could be a second bloodbath, could be poisoned, but Clint doubts it. Most are going to want that food, and most will be willing to call truce to look for allies and friends, to take time to sate their hunger. Clint's looking forward to it too, if only with the hope that some missed faces will appear alive and well.

Still, by the time Clint shows up, the Feast is in full swing. It's expansive, far more than he expected, though he shouldn't have been surprised given the Capitol's extravagance. He lingers on the edges of the party, watching people carefully, seeing what they eat and waiting to make sure it's safe. Then, and only then, does he find a seat and dig in.

ii. exploring

Though he escaped with Steve, at one point they wind up splitting off. Not, of course, that this means Clint can't track down the de-powered superhero. Clint might have been feeling caged in by his well meaning other teammates, but it doesn't mean he's foolhardy enough to completely lose track of a 90lb asthmatic with a heart condition. They might have wanted some space, but Clint will look after his teammate.

It's why he's heading back, retracing his path until he finds where they split, heading off after Steve. It's not hard to do, and Clint only has half his attention on tracking down Steve, scanning his surroundings in case someone decides to get the jump on him. Midstep, something white and gleaming in the underbrush catches his attention, sparking in his periphery. It doesn't look like anything useful at first, simply a white carved stick, unnatural but not threatening. This changes once he picks it up, turns it in hand, and accidentally shoots a bolt of lightning at the floor. It's loud, crackling and booming, sends Clint jumping a foot in the air and throwing himself out of the way on instinct. He takes a moment to make sure he's in one piece, knee throbbing, before getting up and staring down at the stick with his hands on hips.

"What the hell?"

Unfortunately, his luck wasn't enough to keep from drawing attention with that. At the sound of a twig snapping, Clint ducks and scoops up the stick, pointing it loosely at the intruder as he backs up.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's been two weeks, give or take, and while Clint's luck has run well so far, it's wearing on him. His knee hadn't heeled completely back in the Capitol, and the running he'd done -- even as little as Sam had let him get away with -- hadn't helped one bit. He's feeling somewhat like a caged bird, with his primaries clipped. Kept around as a cheerful noisemaker, a pretty little trinket, and very little else.

Clint's never dealt well with being bedridden, with being on leave. He needs something to do, even if being stuck in an Arena limits him to surviving.

So when Steve causes a distraction trying to escape? Well, Clint takes it as a golden opportunity. He sneaks out in the chaos, the confusion, and dodges at Steve's heels out of the castle and into the village. It chases ice up his spine, as always, an instinct telling him to get out. But there's nowhere safe here, not really -- he left the safest place behind him. Still, Steve's out here with him, so he might as well stick around. Even if the guy isn't looking too happy.

Clint chases Steve's disgruntled Stop following me! with a quick, "I'm not, you're just going the same way I am."

Keeps on walking, because he might as well.

Honestly, Steve isn't so sure about his decision to go back to camp with Bucky - not that he had much decision in the matter, but he did choose to stay once he did have some say. Part of him still thinks the guy will slit his throat in his sleep, then agreeing to being stuck in a camp full of people he thinks might kill him when they decide to? That was just dumb. But the other part of him knows he's safe there with them, safer than he is on his own. And it's not like he's forgotten trusting these people, believing in them, risking his life for them, but the fear weighs heavily on his mind, makes it a struggle. The notes help in their own small way, tell him was the best choice.

Doesn't mean he likes it.

The fear grows to be too much for him to deal with, nagging and clawing at him until he feels like he's about to crawl out of his skin with it. And it always wins eventually and, when it does, he makes his escape. He causes a ruckus and runs for it. Well, not run, he sneaks, but still, he makes a break for it. This time successfully.

Almost.

Successful all but for Barton, who is following him and not even trying to mask it like Bucky or Sam. The man is just tailing him with no pretense and for some reason that irritates Steve more than scares him.

He's no less wary, fully aware of the man's skills and capability, but unlike Bucky and Sam, Steve doesn't know Barton all that well. The man is a teammate, but there's no personal connection beyond it, not really. It's that lack of anything more than keeps Steve from becoming sick with confusion, stressed as his mind wars with itself. It allows him to be annoyed. IF he thought about it, he'd find it refreshing.

"I was going this way first, pick a different direction," Steve casts a glare over his shoulder, angling to keep the man on his left, unwilling to trust the man with his bad ear.

Edited 2015-06-09 10:40 (UTC)

It's easy to tail someone, to track them down like nothing more than another mark, another mission. Clint's lived like that for decades, sharpening and honing his skills to a fine point. The thing is, if Clint really wanted to, he could disappear and track Steve down all without the other guy noticing. He's silent as a cat, careful, careful.

But Clint doesn't care about masking his tracking here. Doesn't bother aggravating the mess of his knee any further than he already has, not now, not yet. In case he has to escape later, he'd prefer if it was on a slightly more healed leg than not. So really, thanks for being a relatively easy mark, Steve. Clint can't say exactly why he follows Steve, except that he's going more than restless here in their base, and the constant watching over is driving him crazy. It was nice to see Steve again, even if some horror clawed up Clint's throat at the sight of him so small and fragile. If the Capitol could take the Serum from Steve's veins, then what else could they do?

Clint's never been so grateful that all his skills were through his own hard work rather than some power.

That little glare is so strange though. Steve's features haven't changed, his face a little hollower maybe, but it's a far fiercer look than expected from such a tiny body. Clint's mouth curves imperceptibly with a crooked smile, fights the laughter bubbling up in his throat. His head tilts, brow raised at the order.

"Why should I?" And yeah okay, he's just being an asshole now. But really, Clint never took all that well to orders that went against what he thought was right. It's a problem, always has been.

Yeah, that look Barton gives him is enough to set Steve's teeth on edge, because he can see the unvoiced laughter there. He doesn't need to know the man to see when someone is laughing at him, years of being this small and mocked gave him more than enough time of hearing laughter you can only see as someone tries to contain it. So that glare becomes more of an intense scowl, because he's particularly sensitive to being laughed at now than he was before.

For a brief second though he's not entirely sure how to reply to that comment, because well, it should be obvious, Steve doesn't want the company. But because that's obvious (to Steve at least), he doesn't say it, because Barton should be plenty smart enough to realize that. No, instead he decides to be a bit of an asshole right back.

"Because I'm going westward and it's almost summer, that means you go north, so, follow your instinct and migrate," Steve makes a gesture northward as if to shoo him away, his shoulder popping as he does, but he ignores how his body seems to protest everything he does.

It's less laughing at him, and being more amused to see nothing's changed. Of course not, since Steve is, technically, still himself. It's just weird to think about, when you grow up with the mythos of this supersoldier, and a couple months companionship doesn't really change it all. Even if it does mean Clint has a better grasp on who Steve is, what he's like. He likes the guy, but he doesn't much know him.

That said, it is very obvious that Steve doesn't want company. But here's the thing, Clint's just as stubborn as Steve is, and he also happens to be partners with a stubborn son of a gun too. Also, he's still unsure around a certain ex-brainwashed Russian assassin and he tends not to get on their bad sides if he can help it. Sorry, Steve.

"Ouch," Clint does actually laugh at that, faintly delighted, an easy sort of thing. Luckily for Steve, the sound of his shoulder popping is faint enough that Clint doesn't hear it, though he does see the faint tightness written in Steve's expression.

Steve gives a mighty huff at Barton now laughing out loud at him, but as much as he tries to look put out by it, he's actually not all that bothered this time. He huffs more to hide his own humor at Clint's laughter, to keep himself from smiling. Sure, he's scared of this man, he's a mess of emotions, but his humor isn't dead, he's not- well, no, he's not broken.

Still, that doesn't change that he wants to be on his own and Barton is still following him, against Steve's will. Though, a part of him does realize that maybe he shouldn't fight it so hard, Barton is a teammate and is injured, Steve can help take better care of him if they stick together.

"I'm not dumb, you used me as a distraction to escape, I doubt you planned us both to get out, but then we did. You meant to strike out on your own, so why stick to me like glue?" Steve gives him a curious and very cautious look. One wrong word and Steve is gone.

It's hilarious, it really is. Steve's so utterly put upon, even though Clint can see the humor in his gaze, smile twitching at his mouth. Yeah, he knows Steve doesn't feel comfortable with them, and this is probably nothing at all like what he'd planned, but Clint can't help that.

"What, I can't just like your stellar personality?" Clint smiles, all sunshine innocence that's completely faked, before the look softens, far truer even as he thumbs at his jaw. It's rueful, because Steve's on the nose about this.

"You were my best chance out, yeah." A sigh, a thoughtful pause. "I dunno man, but we've got better odds out here sticking together."

He shifts, taking more weight off his injured leg, and that's maybe a bit purposeful. But it also hurts, one of those ever present aches that you might get used to but can't completely ignore.

If Clint didn't already know Steve, he'd probably be surprised at just how stubborn such a tiny guy could be. But the truth is, Clint's just as damn stubborn. He doesn't expressly offer help, because they escaped that for a reason, but he helps when he can. In little ways. Brushes branches out of the way and lets Steve duck under his arm back onto the path they've chosen. He watches their surroundings carefully, eyes sharp and roving as they scan for trouble. Listens, trying to pick apart the world around him as best as possible. And when he can, he calls for a break, offers Steve water, or food. In as much as they can stomach, what with the stench of death lingering heavily.

Its during one of their breaks that Clint hears it. His head snaps up, feeling the faint vibration of footsteps traveling through the earth. No, not footsteps, hoofbeats, and there, the whinnying call of horses. He stands, gesturing Steve to join him, careful careful. Then, well, once they have their things packed away, he leads them on, picking through the foliage with a sharp gaze. Knowing their luck, these horses could be Capitol bred mutts, beings that would sooner kill than let someone tame them. But Clint's loved horses for an age, and there's something immeasurably calming about knowing there's a herd here of all places.

"Careful," he murmurs, offers a hand to help Steve up over a tricky outcropping of rocks. Steve might take offense at it, but Clint's not even looking at him. Instead, his gaze is outward, upon the field before them. Beyond, the herd has stopped, mouthing easily at grass.

Steve still begrudges Barton sticking around with him, but the longer it continues, the more he acclimates to it. Growing used to the man's presence doesn't mean he's not wary, still keeping distance between them, often pausing to eye Barton's actions, being careful not to turn his back or bad ear to the other man for long. He gets particularly skittish when he's expected to duck under the man's arm, but after a long moment of stubbornly seeming he won't, be risks it, choosing to not let the other man not know he's actually scared.

The break is just another one where Steve refuses Barton's handouts and picks at his own rations, blissfully unaffected by the smell due to the white rose pinned to his clothing. Unlike the other man, Steve has no hearing aids, his partial deafness making it so when the man reacts to unheard sounds, Steve gives him a funny look for a long second before jumping to the conclusion that something dangerous is nearby. While he doesn't trust Barton, he also is more willing to follow the man than wait around for a wolf to make him a late snack.

It's only when they grow closer that Steve begins to distinguish the sounds, not able to pinpoint them at first, but eventually he hears the unmistakable whinny of a horse, something even a city boy like him can identify. Barton's murmur almost goes unheard, but the offered hand doesn't go unnoticed, though it does go unaccepted as Steve rolls his eyes at it and carefully hoists himself up onto the rocks.

He looks out at the horses now, carefully perched, and even his poor eyesight allows him some ability to distinguish them, see them as the sleek majestic creatures that they are. His hand itches to draw them, to color them with his mind's eye.

"Never seen the likes of that," it's a soft whisper, more to himself.

Steve could probably run if he really tried. Clint's injured, he's tired, he's jittering out of his skin with the longer they move without seeing anything. The scent of death is overpowering, and that's honestly what's on his mind. Where are the bodies? Where is the scent coming from?

But he still notices Steve. Still notices the way he carefully keeps Clint before him and to one side. It's a motion Clint's well aware of doing himself, and something a newly deafened Clint Barton did often. He was angrier, more vicious than Steve is, but yeah. He knows that movement. In all honesty though, it's all a show of trust on Clint's part. If Steve had a weapon, ducking under Clint's arm would offer the clearest shot to injure him than not. A knife between his ribs, in his gut, well, there are plenty of ways this could backfire on him. But Sam and Bucky trusted Steve, and months ago when he'd been shaking out of Loki's control, Steve had let Clint come along without qualm. That means something, it does.

He'll let Steve get away with this, with whatever the guy needs to be calmer, to be more comfortable. Plus, he's distracted now, more concerned with the sight of the herd. There's so many of them, beautiful and wild, and Clint's heart aches with nostalgia and a fierce sort of homesickness.

"It's been a while." He says, clear wistful longing written in his voice.

Sure, Steve could run, but the harder he pushes himself, the more chances he has of another asthma attack, of weakening himself into exhaustion that leaves him more vulnerable than safe for the distance he put between them. Serum or not, Steve has enough of a tactical mind to know his chances if he took them. He's pretty sure he's more likely to do well sticking with the man than not at this point. Especially, since he can imagine Bucky hunting him again and he figures so long as Barton is avoiding being caught, then Steve can too.

But he does notice how Barton offers him these chances at being comfortable. He knows the man is an assassin, a sharpshooter, he knows the man wouldn't let Steve put himself in positions of opportunity unless he was allowing Steve that. It's definitely part of the reason Steve's at ease enough to focus on the herd and not on the man next to him, enough to almost forget he's there until he speaks again.

He looks up at Barton for a long second before back out at the horses. "Grew up around them?" he says it casually, but he is genuinely curious.

Well he's not wrong. Clint's more concerned with avoiding everyone else, but if Barnes, or Sam, caught up to them then he'd be alright with it. A chance at freedom, even here in the Arena, was one hard gained that he'd be pressed to lose. At least for now. Besides, Clint has some idea of what Steve's dealing with, if only in the form of his Pre-Serum conditions, and he's been very careful to not only keep an eye out on him but try to prevent things from badly affecting him.

"Sorta." He shrugs a shoulder, eying a horse on the edges that looks remarkably like the one the Ringmaster had favored. "Joined a circus when I was kid, worked with 'em there."

Clint looks away, back towards Steve with a faint crooked smile.

"You've rode before?"

"Circus, huh? Sounds like hard work," sure, a lot of people would assume it would be fun because it's fun to go to the circus, but Steve knows what it's like to be a dancing monkey, it's not as fun being in the show as it is to watch it. It also made some sense how Barton was one of the best at what he did, if he was a trick shot for the show, he had to land every shot or that's be bad for business.

Steve's eyes get a little wide at the question, looking down at the horses below. There were courses in basic, but it was optional and Steve was always too exhausted to even bother considering it.

"After World War One, horse riding wasn't a required part of basic training, so no, never got the chance," he's a city boy through and through.

"Think if we catch one, you could teach me?" his voice is very cautious, obviously putting forth a small bit of trust and seeing if Barton will break it like he expects him to.

"Mhmm," he hums in response, a fond little thing, because yeah the Circus was hard work, and there were a lot of problems that came out of it, but it'd been home. Even with Chisholm and Duquesne, things had been good once upon a time. Clint'd learned so much from them, and from the acrobat family, the strongwoman, the fortune tellers, the keepers. Funny how it can take thirty years and another world entirely to appreciate that completely. "Worth it though."

Better than what waited him outside it, three kids too old and too angry to be adopted, and certainly not together. It was foster and orphanage one after another, until Barney led them out. Steve can understand that, he thinks, if only just a little bit.

As it is, Clint looks over, curious in the answer, even if it's just about what he expected. He nods, thoughtfully, and smiles a bit at the question.

"Yeah, 'course." Clint replies easily, as if he hadn't caught that cautiousness and known exactly what this meant. But Clint has experience working with people with trust issues, and honestly, Steve has nothing on a newly recruited Natasha.

Clint knew they'd have to go back eventually. He'd always planned to, of course, and a part of him is feeling the anxiety that comes from being separated from his team, from his partner. These days, he scans the horizon feverishly with hope that the pictures in the sky are not Sam, not Bruce, not Bucky. Steve, he thinks, is starting to feel it too. It's only been a few days, but a few days is a lifetime within the Arena.

They've got their horse, they've got food and water, weapons. Clint will protect Steve, and he knows Steve would do his best otherwise. But the truth is, Clint is wounded, and Steve's more likely to hurt himself sticking up for them than not. And more-so, chances are, Sam and Bucky are already chasing their heels, ready to drag them both in.

He's still not up to being confined in the castle once more, and he knows they'll probably have to turn the horse free. But he's content here as they are. It's just, it could never last. So Clint huffs, arms around Steve where they sit astride their horse, and turns them back the way they came. Back towards the castle.

"You ready?" Softly, because he knows Steve is probably anything but. Still, they must. Sam and Bucky are going to be after them anyway, might as well meet them half way.

Just as he's starting to maybe be okay with Barton - not trust, but maybe, just maybe, he's growing to be okay with the idea of trusting him - the man suggests they go back and it makes him anxious and wary all over again.

Steve doesn't want to go back. At all. Okay, that's only mostly true. The more he thinks about it the more the conflicting and confusing feelings return, his mind already warring with itself, trying to convince him of one thing while he feels another. The fear unable to quiet the part of him that felt safe with the others, the part that wants to trust them (that does trust them), that wants to know Bucky and Sam are okay, that they haven't been idiots. Though, half the problem is those are the thoughts that do agree with keeping his distance.

But Barton is injured, so Steve convinces himself he's doing this to see the man to the safety of the camp before heading off again himself. Him and and the horse, they could make it on their own.

He nods his ascent to being ready, turning over the closed folding knife in his hands. It was the only way for him to trust the man behind him like this. Twice he had insisted on riding behind instead and both time he fell off, his arms too weak to keep hold on such a bumpy ride. So, this seemed the best - only - solution, even if Steve felt vulnerable like this, he was okay so long as he could see both of Barton's hands. The knife was just a safety precaution.

"As I'll ever be."

Bucky was trying to stay calm.

He was trying to remind himself that Steve was not helpless, no matter his size; that he had never been helpless even back when he was a pint sized kid back on the streets of Brooklyn. That was not the problem.

The problem was that Steve had never been accepting of his own limits. Bucky just knew he'd never back down and the thing he'd always thought would one day get Steve killed, his need to prove himself against a world that told him otherwise, was going to happen before he and Sam found them.

Them, plural, because as far as Bucky can tell Barton had stuck with Steve after leaving the castle. In fact that's about the only comfort he can find in this situation. He just prays Steve ain't sick again and Barton's leg isn't hindering him too bad. They weren't dead as of last night's death roll but who knows how long that'll last.

Tracking them down isn't easy. Bucky's spent most of the time with his eyes on the dirt ground trying to read a trail while Sam scanned for dangers on the horizon.

Really, Sam should be in his element in all of this. This is what he did, tracking down people who needed help and getting them back to safety. Of course, usually those people wanted his help, usually he had a little more to go on than a faint trail in the dirt, and usually he's got wings instead of a horse.

And usually he isn't quite as personally invested in the people he's going after. Every soldier he'd been sent after had become one of his, that was always the way it was with pararescuemen, but this was different. This time they're already his, and he's scared for them both.

Even if he is pissed at Clint for just running off on them. Yeah, maybe Sam'd been trying to protect him a little more than he usually does, but that doesn't mean he wants to be his damn babysitter. Sam would've been perfectly happy to let Clint go off and do whatever the hell he needed to do if he'd have just told him, instead of disappearing with no word.

But they're both capable, Sam knows that. And it seems like they're sticking together, that's another thing they've got going for them.

"Any luck?" he asks, one hand resting on the mane of the horse he'd managed to grab while he keeps an eye on the nearby woods.

The truth is, Clint had been slowly guiding them back anyway, a winding path even before Steve had agreed. It's not that he doesn't realize Steve's planning to run as soon as they get back, or that it's only Clint's injury that's granting this return in the first place. But as long as it works, he'll take it.

"Alright."

He nods, hands loose upon their horse's mane even as he guides it onward. His arms around Steve are loose, elbows tucked against his sides, but elsewise not touching him. He knows how it feels to be stuck in a situation beyond control, terrifying and all encompassing. He won't trap Steve into that, even if he won't let him run off willy-nilly either. It's a delicate tightrope to walk, but one he's fully capable of. He thinks.

Right now, Clint's more worried with heading back into more traveled territory, and the chance of running into someone who might be more than willing to attack. Without his archery, with his knee as it is, Clint's relying on speed to get them out of any danger. Doesn't help that his hearing isn't the greatest, and Steve's isn't either. His vision is luckily more than enough, and so he picks through the forest, looking for any hint of trouble.

For now, there is no reply to offer in kind to that, just acceptance of going back when he doesn't really want to. So, all he offers is a nod to reassure the other man he's really okay with it.

He doesn't feel he can back out now, so he won't.

Steve keeps his eyes up more than forward, watching what's above them, looking for beacons in the sky. He knows his eyesight is failing at best, but he can spot beacons pretty easy, besides, they often herald the people they should avoid most, though the forest makes it difficult at best to see them. Still, it's one of the few ways he can help, so he keeps his eyes up and peeled.

So, maybe that's why he just happens to be looking off to the side and up enough to catch a glimpse of a beacon through the trees. Something that's there, then a step and it's gone. Steve grabs Clint's wrist gently, then points and signs beacon. Though it looked close enough he wouldn't be surprised if the owner of the beacon came across them before they could act.

That's another problem with trying to hunt someone down who maybe didn't want to be found, having a giant glowing beacon over your head.

Bucky grimaces at Sam's question and shakes his head, "Grounds all churned up. Looks like horses." he looks distrustfully at the creature in question that Sam managed to catch; despite agreeing to ride with his friend he still feels uncomfortable around it. Machines feel safer than unpredictable animals.

He'd been a city boy through and through growing up.

Standing up Bucky starts to continue forwards, his best guess for the path Steve and Clint had taken is all they have to go on.

He quirks a little smile at the way Bucky looks at the horse. At another time, he’d tease Bucky about being a city boy - like Sam can talk, born and raised in Harlem, but that’s beside the point - but now’s not the place. He’s worried about Steve and Clint, and they need to concentrate.

Sam starts forward as well, on foot instead of hopping back up on the horse. She’s better if they’re looking to travel quickly, but with the lack of a decent trail right now, Sam’s betting the next little bit is going to be a lot of stopping and starting.

Case in point, they haven’t gone very far when Sam hears movement nearby, and slows to a stop.

“Three o’clock,” he murmurs.

The further they go, the thicker the forest and the less easy it is to manage. Clint relies on their horse to know how best to pick her way through the mess, but it means slower going when the opposite is what he wants. He keeps very carefully from growing frustrated, a sniper's patience treating him well.

But Steve curls his hand around Clint's wrist, and he stills. Looks over with sharp gaze and readied weapon, already nudging their horse in order to hopefully escape what pursuit they might have. It'll set them back, but if it keeps them alive then it doesn't matter.

Hold on tight. He signs, carefully, gaze picking through the trees as if he might find the beacon Steve mentioned.

He wasn't tracking the guy, that would mean a)he actually cared what the guy was doing and b) that Pietro thought he might be interesting enough to follow. He was, however, slow and even while trying way too hard to not use his powers, Pietro was not and it wasn't hard to go off and explore something and then come back and find the guy again.

There was one thing about him: Pietro could recognize something in his movements and he was fairly sure that thing was tracking. It wasn't something he could do himself -why would he need to?- but he'd seen it in Sabertooth and even Wolverine when the speedster had bothered to give those two idiots any attention. He couldn't help it, he was curious what the guy was tracking, especially since it was clear in his movements that there was something wrong with his leg. Seemed like a laughably bad life choice. He wasn't laughing when something suddenly caused lightening to strike near the guy and caused Pietro to dart back a few steps to avoid the flying debris. His first thought was just that the guy had powers to and had used them and had been struck by lightning (something this place had been trying to do to Pietro since day one) but that hadn't come from the sky.

While the man was still recovering from whatever had happened, the teen tried to sneak in behind him, only to blow his cover when a twig snapped under his foot. So much for that. Pietro half-raised his hands in 'surrender' but put them on his hips instead when he saw it was just a stick. "And what're you gonna do with that? Pokemewithit? I'm sooo scared."

Tracking in this place isn't exactly easy. While he knows Steve, knows Steve's movements, there are chances that some of this is another person, that some of this might be the Capitol. So Clint took his time, careful, careful, ignoring the growing aching in his knee. Wouldn't be the worst mission he's had.

The sound of a twig snapping, even in his muffled hearing, has Clint spinning around, knife in one hand, newly purloined wand in the other. His gaze is sharp and calculating, already trying to figure out whether this kid is a threat and what his next move should be. The taunt has him smiling, but it's not a very nice smile. More of a baring of teeth, eyes cold and blue.

Instead of answering, Clint points the wand at Pietro's feet, and shoots. The earth explodes before him as lightning strikes the ground. It's answer enough.

On instinct, Pietro zips a few feet away to the guy's right and out of the way of the blast. No way was that happening.

"So your stick's got some tricks. Real impressive. Look, man, I wasn't even here to start any trouble, I getthefeelingyou'vegotsome issues to work out."

He zipped over and aimed to slide in behind the annoying man and give him a nice little push. That knee of his sure looked like it might be a bad thing to put weight on.

"Why don't we just cool off a bit?"

Bruce is similarly waiting for other people to eat, but while he does so, he grabs the bottles of vinegar from the table and starts pouring out bowls of them to put around the room and table. It's the best way to neutralize the horrible smell.

As he passes Clint by, he says, "Help me out with this and maybe we'll be able to actually eat."

Movement catches his eye, the quick, sure, motions of someone with a plan being put in action. When he looks up and spots Bruce, well, something eases out of the tense line of his shoulders. Clint's mouth curves with an easy smile, not surprised at all, and he joins, plucks a bowl carefully away to help.

"You got it Doc." Teasingly, nudges his shoulder against Bruce's

One party guest seems to be foregoing the chairs entirely, opting instead for hanging from one of the candle-laden chandeliers by his knees and bending upside down to snatch food and either put it in a sack at his side or stuff it in his blue gob.

Yes, that's right, he's blue. And fuzzy, actually, with pointed ears and a pointed tail, but he stuffs his face like a teenager and even though it seems he's taken care to position himself out of reach of anyone actually at the table, he's done so in such an impractical way.

Again Kurt leans down from his perch and snags the very last cinnamon roll from the table, pulling himself up at his knees back onto the chandelier with an all too satisfied look on his face. He places it in the sack that dangles beside him, held in place by his tail, and then looks across the table for another treat. No more cinnamon rolls.

Well that's no good.

"Hey, are there any more?" He calls in his surprisingly gentle voice with a noticeable German accent to one of the nearby servants. Of course, it looks like he's calling directly at Clint.

"Uhh... not you, sorry, but... well, are there any more cinnamon rolls over there?"

Edited 2015-06-09 03:34 (UTC)

It's not that Clint hadn't noticed Kurt hanging from the chandelier. He's in the habit of scanning the skies, a sniper's training written into him. Few people look up, but Clint always does. So yeah, he'd noticed the blue fuzzy kid with a tail dangling from the chandelier by his knees. He'd even noticed that beyond the truly disgusting way the kid shoves food in his face in the way starving teenagers everywhere do.

And maybe this place is wearing on him after half a year, but all Clint does is blink, and then focus on the people immediately around him. Blue people hanging from the ceiling, this is his life now.

That doesn't mean Clint's expecting to be spoken to, though, and he looks up again, brow furrowed.

"Cinnamon rolls?" He pauses, scans the table and -- well yes there's a small dish left actually. He scoops it up carefully, and heads over to meet Kurt where he's still hanging. "Here."

"Thanks!" The mutant cranes down a bit to reach for the plate, looking as if he might go toppling from the chandelier, but instead he manages to snag the cinnamon rolls and keep purchase with a swing from his tail as a counterbalance. With the food in his possession, Kurt unceremoniously stuffs a roll in his face whole and appears to swallow without chewing.

"These are great. All the food here is! I guess they have to balance it all out somehow, right?" Clearly he's new.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

semi-open; gone, like it was destined

escape; clint & steve

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control; clint & steve

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capture; team cap + birb

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ii

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