Date Night Gone Wrong

May 03, 2018:

As always, Clint manages to ruin Bobbi's date nights.


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

"…and here we are," Tom says, pulling the convertible up to the valet outside Chez Georges.

"I hope it's not too lowbrow," he adds sheepishly as he steps out of the car, handing his key to the nearest attendant. "But I tend to splurge on first dates." Stepping around quickly to the passenger side of the car, Tom waves off a second valet and reaches for the door.

There's clearly a wait already for the restaurant tonight, as several couples mill about in the lobby, but Tom only chuckles and adjusts his tie. "Talk about luck - I got the last reservation for tonight minutes after you agreed to go to dinner."

It's busy this evening in the Village, and the sidewalks are crowded with all sorts of people looking to enjoy their night.

Most are dressed for attention. Even so, there are clearly those in the crowds that seek to blend in. One of those types is just /barely/ visible from the mouth of a nearby alley, its features hidden under a hood - although it's clear the figure is looking in the direction of Chez Georges.


Bobbi Morse was supposed to be fishing for information, an short undercover mission that would allow her to stay in the city with minor amounts of cover required. A date with a possible asset that could get her into another string of informants was the goal. The natural blonde had since pinned and tucked her golden hair beneath a short brunette wig. A slinky, cocktail dress length, black dress and pair of sizzling red heels made up her outfit as she stepped along side her date for the evening as he opened the door for her and she smiled.

It was a false smile, one she'd reserved for men that preferred their dates to laugh when jokes were made and to be easily impressed. An easy enough demeanor to adopt. She batted her eyelashes, and grinned up at her date. "It's not that gauche, trust me. I like being spoiled on a first date." She simpered.


"Oh, thank God," Tom exhales, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow as the pair is ushered to the proper table.

As he sits and looks over his menu, Tom clears his throat. "So, ah, I have a confession to make. I can't actually read French." He clears his throat again. "I guess that's a bit embarrassing for a cultural attache to Algeria to mention, but, frankly, I do almost all of my work States-side."

In the streets outside, the shadowy figure seems to have disappeared. No - it's moved. Closer. Loitering near a bus stop just on the periphery of the restaurant's view.

"So, do you like your work in the tech sector? You're in sales, righ—"

Tom's question is cut off as a loud *CRASHH!!* resounds throughout the room. The hooded figure from the shadows has flown through the window and landed in a heap on the floor. On top of Tom.

The figure's hood has fallen off its head. A dazed expression is upon its face. Clint's face. Yes, it's Clint.

"Buuuuuughhhhhhgaaaa…." he croaks softly.

Everyone else in the restaurant is, quite reasonably, staring at this scene. Many entrees and appetizers have been scattered, to say nothing of the drinks.


Bobbi ordered herself a glass of wine as the waitress came through, musing over the menu with an air manner. At Tom's admittance she flashed him a coy smile, and leaned forward, propping her chin up with the palm of her hand. "To be honest I don't really know French either. But I think our waitress doesn't either. Pointing and stumbling over the options should be enough." She joked lightly.

It was all a lie of course, she knew French perfectly well. And about a dozen other languages.

Then the conversation topic shifted and she leaned back in her seat, a thoughtful glance following before—



She was pushing away from the table ducking with a speedy movement, only to realize that the chaos wasn't headed toward her… Her, ex-still-technically-legally-married-husband, smashed through the glass and the cause of the chaos. Clint Barton landing on her date for the night.

Joy of joys.

It took her far too long than a usual person to clap her hands over her mouth and stare in shock, trying to hide her anger and irritation as she found herself standing up on her heels. "Oh my god."


"Buuuh…bubba?" Clint asks, eyes slowly focusing. He blinks somewhere in the vicinity of nine hundred times.

Beneath him, Tom groans softly. Next to his splayed arm is a pistol with a silencer.

Clint begins pushing himself up onto his elbows. It's about that time that the sound of dozens of guns cocking can be heard.

Every member of the staff in the restaurant - and just about every other patron present - is armed. And they're pointing their guns at Bobbi and Clint.

"Yay date night," Clint says meekly.

Out in the street, a menacing figure approaches, its long, muscular arms retracting to the length of 'normal' human arms. "What are you morons waiting for?" Anaconda asks, spitting over her shoulder. "Do I have to do /everything/ myself?"


[Piotr Rasputin returns from OOC Land.]


Piotr Rasputin heads out to Lower Manhattan.


Bobbi frowned, her hands falling to her hips as Clint mumbled our her name, or at least an attempt at it. She scowled, and was about to say something before the sound of guns clicked and she found herself surrounded by cocked muzzles all around. She edged further back, her hands lifting aloft slowly as she casually placed her figure closer to her ex. Clint might bring chaos but at least she knew he'd watch her back in the middle of what was very quickly going to become a shoot out.

"This is why I can't go on dates." She shot back, her gaze swinging toward the menacing figure as arms retracted.

"Oh goody."


"You know," Clint says with a heavy sigh, "I seem to recall you never being available for dates…"


"What do you mean, 'Pizza Hut isn't a date night place'?!" Clint asks angrily at the text message on his smartphone.


Anaconda steps through the shattered window. The not-really-restaurant-staff-and-patrons keep their guns aimed on the SHIELD operatives.

"I'd say 'lady's choice' but I feel the need to just finish this quickly," Clint whispers a bit loudly - and then he flicks a butter knife at a busboy with a submachine gun. The surprised busboy sprays bullets up at the ceiling, chunks of which then collapse on a family of three that each wielded a compact Uzi.

And, with that, all hell breaks loose.


Bobbi flicked the brown wig off her head with a practiced movement, freeing pins and the alike smoothly when it became clear 'the jig was up' such as it was. A sigh and a roll of her eyes followed as she kicked off her heels in the same motion. "Dates imply decent food, Clint." She shot back, her voice dry. Even as he spoke about finishing up the soon to be chaos.

A huff of breath followed, and she shook her head.

"Already made my choice." And then she was flinging away her wig into the face of the closest would be gun man, as she dropped to the floor to avoid the spray of bullets. A roll and she came up with two twin batons in both hands, where she'd kept them on that little black dress was anyone's guess.

But all the same, she took to the brawl like a natural. An old song and dance as she twisted around behind Clint. Step by step, back to back. Never tripping up his own movements or hampering them. They'd fought together, they'd survived together and when all was said and done, that natural trust found in battle was tougher to break than the bonds of matrimony.

"So what'd you do, Clint to piss off the Snake Woman?"


"Uhhhh," Clint says, leaping to perform a handstand on a nearby table, kicking another gunman in the elbow and throwing off her aim - cutting down a line cook trying to hide behind a pillar. "I may or may not have stumbled onto a Serpent Society thing … that … is connected to some AIM doohickey?"

The attempted assassins around Bobbi are disarmed, flung upside-down, and otherwise beaten into unconsciousness. Many of those still upright duck for cover in the chaos, looking for opportune moments to strike.

"Freaking beekeepers," Anaconda grunts, and her arms extend again. "Come over here, you piece of muck! Nobody tricks me into a fake date - especially not at /Golden Corral/!"

As Anaconda's arms sweep across the room like a long-range clothesline, Clint can't help but shoot a glance and a wink at Bobbi. "What can I sa—" he begins to quip, and then he's slapped into the nearest wall with enough force to crumple the drywall.


A roll of her eyes followed as Clint mentioned some sort of a snake cult thing, and ducked beneath another hail of bullets. She found cover behind an upended table for a brief moment, and swung back around and knocked another would be patron knocked to the ground. She continued to make her way through the chaos of battle. A swing, a kick, punch, duck.. The cycle on automatic violence.

Her focus shifted toward the screaming woman, Anaconda, and she snorted once. Rolling her eyes. Yep. That would be Clint.

Of course then the cheeky man was winking and— smashed into the wall. Yep.

The blonde ran, going for Anaconda as she threw her baton with practice swing to close the distance between them. An electric current snapping through the metal as it flew, a metal taser meant to distract and cause no small amount of pain. "Sorry honey, I understand, really I do, and he deserves it. But I can't let you kill him."


"Slag off, Barbie," Anaconda sneers, whipping one of her elongated - but still hefty and muscular - arms around her head like a whip in order to target Bobbi. "Prince Charming here's got /more/ then enough to answer for even /without/ bungling up this honeypot operation!"

As if in response, Tom groans from his crumpled form on the floor. His wallet, along with a partially visible ID badge of some kind, is splayed out from his blazer pocket nearby.

Clint drops to the floor with a 'thud' and shakes his head. "Thought … going dutch … would be appreciated …!" he manages to say through gritted teeth.

One of the assassins with decent survival instincts springs out from behind a dish cart and points a submachine gun at the back of Clint's head. "Stand down, Morse, or he's toast!"


Bobbi saw the arms coming for her, but, with her attention half focused on keeping the attacking servers and staff at bay.. she got clipped and found herself stumbling and rolling backwards. She oof'ed her breath knocked from her but little else at least. Still, she grabbed up one of her batons as it rolled back her way, and she gained her feet, knocking one last would be assassin to their back.

Blue eyes flared with the rush of battle, and she caught her breath, with a grin. "Can't say I've been called that before that's new." Of course .. that is when her grin fell off her face as the sub machine gun was leveled at the back of Clint's head. She went still, her hands lowering the steel batons in her grip.

"Alright, alright.."


His head moving just barely moving, Clint stares at Bobbi and nods toward … Tom's shoe?

"Hey!" the gunman behind Clint's head barks. "Stop - whatever that is you're doing!"

Anaconda whirls about, taking her eyes off Bobbi, her arms contracting back to regular human proportions. "You moron, don't pay attention to what they /want/ you to pay attention to—"

"Allez hop!" With a rush of speed, Clint kicks a baton-length of chair leg directly at Bobbi. The marksman laughs and then somersaults to the side, away from the gunman.


Bobbi Morse made a show of being utterly pliant and following directions, a false, wide eyed look spared for the would be killer. Of course, that's when Anaconda broke her gaze and the blonde was moving on her toes, catching the kicked chair leg with the tips of her fingers. A manic grin on her features as she spun and made to attack the woman with particularly interesting arms with all the force she could muster at the back of the woman's head.

"You really need to work on your choice of girlfriends, Clint." She quipped between movement to movement.


Anaconda spins a full 360 degrees from the force of Bobbi's strike and drops to the ground, knocked out cold. Her limbs extend a bit, as if relaxing from the lack of mental control over their length.

Clint continues to somersault, grabbing a serving platter as a makeshift shield between him and the nearby gunman a moment before the latter sprays half a clip at the archer.

The shield falls to the floor, discarded, as Clint disappears behind a table. A whistle of sound announces the sudden frisbee-like throw of a crystal saucer - which hits the gunman in the temple. He, too, drops to the ground.

After that, it's pretty quiet.

"Heyyyy, Bobbi?" Clint asks softly from behind the table. "You got any SHIELD field medikits on hand? That platter-tray thing wasn't really so bulletproof…"

He raises a red hand.


Bobbi dropped the chair leg as soon as it was clear Clint had handled the last immediate threat. She was scanning around, making to check the other doors and windows to be certain that no one was going to shoot at them. It was a practiced skill, and done and over with in seconds. She reached down, grabbing the heels she'd kicked off and was in the process of putting her shoes back on, when Clint asked if she had med-kit on hand. She blinked, and an irritated sigh pulled from her lips.

"Where would I keep one on me in this dress, Clint? No. I don't have one on hand." She stalked over to Clint as he raised a bloody hand into the air. Her irritation commingled with concern, and she was grabbing a table cloth and ripping it up.

"Right strip off whatever it is that you're bleeding under. Lets get a field dressing on you so we can clear out of here before the cops show up. This was a rather nice restaurant."


Shaking his head, Clint sighs. One hand is clutching his stomach - it looks like he may have been shot in the side. "I don't know," he mutters, exasperated. "Aren't women's pocketbooks like tesseracts or something?"

Even as he asks the question, he begins peeling off his shirt, wincing noticeably as he does so.

A few grazes stripe Clint's arm and back, but the one wound is clear, and it begins leaking as soon as he takes pressure off it - even more so when he moves.

"Admit it," he hisses, slapping a hand back over the injury, "you just needed a refresher of these chiseled good looks."

Clint glances about, blinking to keep his eyes focused. "So … your mission a success, at least?"


Bobbi huffed breath, ripping bandages out of the once nice fabric table cloth. It would do until she could get them out of there to treat it properly. As Clint removed his shirt she was moving quickly, practiced hands leaning forward to invade his personal space and wrap the fabric round and round him. "My pocketbook? My purse was a decoy." She muttered and shook her head.

Her hand pressed against his side as she leaned back, blue eyes narrowing as she met his gaze.

"You ruined my mission entirely." She grunted, leaning back for another strip of fabric to staunch the bleeding as best she could. "You and your showing off." She rolled her eyes, as she reached around him once more.


"Gnnugh," Clint grumbles as his wound is dressed. "I was … keeping it purely a stealth op. Doing recon on these bozos. Pure coincidence … guhh … that you were here."

He weakly holds up two fingers. "Scout's honor," Clint notes, before waving a thumb at Anaconda. "Didn't even figure she … was involved in this. Guess she knew - or thought - something I didn't."

Clint glances at Tom. "What's his deal, anyway? On your own honeypot? Or just … regular old professional networking? Meet him on LinkedIn?"

In the distance, sirens can be heard - they're faint, but they're approaching.


Bobbi rolled her eyes and if she tied the fabric bandage around his waist, perhaps a bit more forcefully than was necessary. Her gaze swung around the room once and back as she pursed her lips and thwacked Clint on his shoulder. "C'mon, up you go." She made to lean forward to wrap her arm around and underneath his shoulders.

"I was supposed to use him as a means of getting through the door. That's all, not that it matters." She drawled. "I'm on an alternative assignment for the Avengers these days otherwise." She pursed her lips, trying to help Clint up so they could flee from the scene as it were.


For his part, Clint manages - less than gracefully - to get to his feet, leaning more on Bobbi than he might have wanted.

"Speaking of … unghh … getting through the door …" Clint says, trying not to breathe too deeply. "I can make it," he continues, trying to walk under his own weight. He very quickly ends up slumping back into Bobbi's arm for support.

"So," he adds as he's walked/dragged out into the night, "I guess Pizza Hut doesn't look so bad now, does it?" Shards of extremely expensive glassware crack under his shoes.


"Pizza hut? No, it sounds way worse." She shot back, not so much as letting Clint take a step without her by his side. She knew the figures for blood loss and the rate of fire for those guns. Annnd how much he'd need stitches. She rolled her eyes as Clint continued to try to walk under his own power and she huffed a breath.

"C'mon I've got my motorcycle around the corner here from when I was scouting this place out as a back up plan. I'll tie you to the back." She didn't ask, she ordered more or less. Expected to take him back to her one room apartment she'd recently taken over to patch him up. It wasn't up for debate in one Bobbi Morse's eyes.


"Can't wait," Clint says breathlessly. "Want me … to drive?"

He gives a shaky thumbs-up and an even shakier smile, although he stops himself from what would almost certainly be an agonizing chuckle. "Could show you some moves Nat taught me."

Clint is quiet for a moment, wincing again. "I mean, uh … I'll just shut up now."

He's silent again as they approach the motorcycle. "Thanks, Bobbi," Clint says quietly. "Guess I owe you one."


Bobbi had to hold back another roll of her eyes as she kicked the door open and helped Clint along to the alley outside and down the way. "No way in hell. Also, I've talked with Nat. What has she taught you that she hasn't taught me?" She muttered and shook her head. She too, fell quiet as they got to the motorcycle and she helped him to settle his weight there.

"You always owe me one." Her voice was softer, more toned down with concern as she changed her mind and settled him in the front of the motorcycle.

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