Worst Office Ever

September 05, 2018:

Natasha appears in the doorway to Clint's office, only to barge in and ask him what choices he's making on his fantasy football team, she then pulls out an electric guitar and jams to some Metalica while kicking his desk over (Okay. None of that actually happens. Except the office part.)

Clint's Office at the Trisk

There's literally nothing in his office, its horrible. Its like being in a boring nightmare.


NPCs: None.

Mentions: Cap


Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

This is Clint's office. There are many like it but this one is his. Or rather it's the one he uses when he /rarely/ needs to. How can it be considered his, however? There's no decor of his by choice in here. His name isn't on the door that links to the outside hallway on section 7. There's barely even any furniture in here save for a desk and a computer and a chair in a room that's entirely too tiny for having visitors barely fifteen by ten. It's positively claustrophobic and still the base color of white primer used on the walls for paint.
But it suits him just fine on those rare occasions he needs to sit and hunker down in front of a machine and conduct 'bizness'.
Bizness that entails right now a computer clacking now and then on bare bones interface. Not a networked machine to the outside world, just a pure internal terminal for the SHIELD database that has him perusing what look like timelines and account reports. Mundane things that he figured he'd spend most of his career trying to deal wtih. And yet…
Here he is in his office chair, slouched. The only testament of something beyond work to the man being the bottle of Orangina that's half empty upon the desktop.

Natasha has an office too. Somewhere. Actually she has lots of them, but most of them are under fake names or alias' that she goes by for the various information networking fake personas that she has ongoing in her life, a life ever attempting to dilute and smudge away the actual Natasha Romanoff's existence. She likes to hide from herself, after all, which is why she loves to stay busy with work.

"You know they track the websites you go to." Natasha's familiar husky voice can be suddenly heard from Clint's doorway, even if he'd had the door locked she would've jimmied it open in near perfect silence like she does, and now? She's just lenaed against the door frame in one of her black bodysuits with her guns on her thighs and a red can of coke held between her half gloved hands.


She opens the can of coke and lifts it up to her red lips for a sip. "I can show you how to delete the browser history though." She clears her throat and half-smirks at him. "But I'm not gonna."

At Natasha's appearance and the sound of that voice to the side, she'll see him look up at first, feigning disinterest. But when her first words are what they are he sort of half-smirks, then his eyes widen as if he had been caught out. He makes a big clumsy show of fumbling with the mouse and trying to frantically minimize the windows. Then he turns around in his seat and says, "Natasha, I didn't hear you come in!" But then his fearful features slip back into their normal smirk as he rolls his eyes exaggeratedly at her and turns back around in his chair.
Clicking a few more times on the mouse he brings up the displays of what he was looking at, since no harm in her knowing. At least it's likely there's no harm in her knowing. Hrm. He turns back around and folds his arms. "Ya know, Nat, I've used computers before." He says as if admonishing her. "I've used the twitter and the facebook. I'm with it. I'm happening."
He does, however, reach over his shoulder and grab the Orangina from the desktop and takes a pull of it. "Whatchoo want? Or you just bored and wanting to hassle me?"

Natasha never laughs, Clint knows that all too well and if she DOES laugh, she's faking it to accomplish something… he likely would know that too.

She steps into his room as he makes his show of being 'caught' and she just grins lopsidedly at him as he does it, which does show her being amused as much as her Russian-self is capable of it.

"A little of both." She admits to him as she takes a seat in a chair across from his desk and then leans back in it so that her shoulders are touching the wall to be propped up against it, like one of those cool kids in highschool.

Another sip of her soda is had and Natasha looks down at the can and then back up at Clint. "I just realized I didn't wash this. And I just heard that these things are covered in rat feces, microscopic anyway…" She exhales heavily then and looks back up at him.

"No, I'm here because I'm supposed to inform you that you're training a whole team of newbs next week. Seven AM to Noon." The dreaded Trainer Schedule… She stares at him with a penetrating gaze of green, waiting to see his reaction.

"There are a million things worse than that… that we do every day, so don't let it get to you." Clint says as he brushes off the comment about rat feces and soda cans. But then he shifts his tone subtly as he adds, "You /disgusting creature/." He adds some weight to those last two words but any sting is likely chased away by the smirk and their history together.
Then she settles and offers him the bad news, perhaps just to see his reaction and she likely might find it a touch disappointing. Usually when he has such 'work' thrust upon him, he makes no small qualm about it and grouses and groans and grumbles the whole time he takes on the duty. But this time, he only looks mildly pained and his brow furrows as he looks back towards the monitor and says… nothing.
Which, of course considering their past, tells her everything. It tells her that he takes whatever he's doing seriously, that he's actually having to focus time on it, and that instead of complaining about the training and then seemingly grudgingly accepting it… he actually thinks he might have to say no. Which might all be so terribly intriguing.
Clint looks back to her and says, "I might be able to, depends on how some info gathering goes and some Dale Carnegies."

Natasha rolls her eyes at the 'disgusting creature' part of his response and she then kicks her booted feet up so that the heels of her treaded boots are on the edge of his fancy desk while she just leans there, legs crossed at the ankles now. "I'll live. I've injested worse." She tells herself, taking another sip of the soda before she sets the can down on a table to her right. Her eyes look around his office then… and this takes several seconds, lingering seconds that allow him to say the rest of what he says.

She continues to look around, to the point that he might note the awkward silence from the redhead and look at her to see why she's not speaking, and instead just looking around at the… nothingness in here.

"Where's all the sports stuff?" She asks him. "Where's all the little pointed flags with sport logos, and the game winning trophies, and the books on Barbecuin'" She plays up that last word with a big American-accent flavor on it.

"For that matter, where's the bows and arrows and the targets where you shot the same arrow through the same hole in the center, repeatedly?" Finally her green eyes return to Clint. "This office doesn't feel like you, Barton. I'm disappointed." She shows a half grin then toward him. "I'll help you with the training, don't worry about it. The newbs love having me around."

A snort comes from him, "Alright, so long as you do the heavy lifting." Clint says that easily enough, and as if that was it the situation is decided. But after what she said while looking around his office, that takes him to considering it as well. For a time they both sort of sit there and look at his mostly empty place.
After a bit of time he eventually pipes up with, "You know, I'm not sure why I never brought anything in here. Or kept it like this. I mean back in the day in army intel I had knick knacks, I had cool stuff." He pushes a hand over his short hair and then hooks it along the back of his neck. "But here, I dunno. I guess I sorta made a promise to myself to not get too attached. If there's something I like to save then it's probably back home." Wherever he calls 'home' though might be curious.
That said he tilts his head back towards her, "Besides, if a guy has to have a book on how to do the 'cue right, then he doesn't deserve to have his own smoker." With that judgement he gives a single nod as if that settled that.
"So, Nat. What's your take on the current status of things?"

"I guess that makes sense." The Russian quietly responds to his summation on 'why' this office is as it is. The part about the 'cue just gets a half smirk from her and a slight shake of her head as she glances down at her hands on her stomach. "My take?" She repeats, her eyes now going up over his desk to him. "Well… There've been no Red Lantern outbreaks plaguing the world, so the Justice League actually came through on that front so it would seem. The Hulk has been contained in a calm enviroment in Westchester, and hasn't had any violent outbreak episodes… The Mutant Registration protests are heating up, however, so we're likely on the verge of countless horrendous terrorists actions from angry Mutants who just want to have their voices heard, but know no other way than to use their genetic gifts to create chaotic and violent outbursts."

She drops her feet from his desk and lets them thud onto the floor, then sucks in a breath of air. "My take is that its business as usual, and that this place is probably going to be busy enough through the end of the year to keep us both grumbly, but busy."

Nodding somewhat, Clint listens as she offers her insight into the flow of events that had been around them over the course of the last year and he takes a deep breath as his thoughts drift for a moment in reflection. Then he tilts his head to the side and pointedly leans over to dust at the place where her shoes were, as if she might have left a mark. He then swivels in his chair a little to face her more directly.
"What about with what happened to Phil Coulson?" He asks, not offering too much of his own insight into the course of events in that regard. Instead he asks, "There's been a lot of thoughts swirling around from a lot of people. I figured you'd be at the forefront of knowing where things are."

Natasha reaches back over to her soda and takes hold of the can. Coca Cola is the only thing Natasha injests that isn't pure health food or the kind of thing that a nutritionist would scream at you that you must eat… but its also her body's metabolism and genetically altered conditioning that makes the soda not have the same effect on her that it does other people, even the caffeine doesn't really effect her. She just likes the bubbly taste, the burn of it.

A quick shake of her head and the Agent is sipping from the ratty can again. "I'm not involved in any of that." She says simply. "I asked and was told to mind my own business, so thats what I'm doing. I guess if it becomes something that they want a solitary person to go in and risk their life over, then maybe I'll be on the 'need to know basis' but in the mean time? My focus is elsewhere. I've got other tasks I'm trying to get results on."

"I just would've felt better knowing they set someone like you on it." Clint says as he folds his arms over his chest and looks thoughtfully to the side. He pushes over and hits the ESC key on the keyboard to trigger the screen lock, then turns off the monitor with a flick of the button. He rounds back towards her and waves his hands as if shooing her off and out of his office, even as he rises and grabs his overshirt from its place hanging on the back of his chair.
"C'mon, let's get outta here. Hate spending time in here." As is pretty evident from the surroundings. He starts to pull on that camo shirt over his arms and then settles it on his shoulders as he adjusts the collar. "Let's swing by the commissary and grab something, then you can take me around and show me what you've been working on."
Reaching over and to the side he grabs the handle of the door and twists it, opening it again for her. "C'mon, scoot Romanov. And you know how unhealthy that sugar water is for you? Man. So bad for you."

Natasha watches him deactivate the monitor and she shows a little grin. "You know turning off the monitor doesn't mean the computer itself is deactivated, right?" She just has to tease him about the computer stuff because, well, he's tried to convince her for a long time that he knows his way around those machines but she refuses to buy it.

When he comes about to shoo her out of his office then she's rising up and moving on out. "Okay okay, sheesh, relax." She sweeps herself out into the hallway and then looks down at the can. "Its my afternoon soda. It keeps me going until I can put a little Russian water into one later." She then exhales and walks over to a waste bin and drops it in. "Fine, if I'm going to start getting body shamed at work, I'll have to drink them in my office… wherever it is." She mutteres that last part then and walks back over toward him.

"I'm trying to track down a mercenary who I know is here in the States, we had a run in earlier this year on a Op and, well, I need answers from him."

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Clint starts to walk down the hallway heading in the general direction of that bank of four elevators. He chews his lower lip for a moment as he listens to her then eyes her sidelong while they move. "You need a partner you let me know." He continues down the way, stepping around another agent as they walk the way they came. It's when they reach the central hallway and the elevators that he'll step up and press the button then lean against the wall there.
"We can skip out during the training session. Set up a pair of cardboard cutouts of us from the Avengers gift shop, then play that MP3 we caught of the Russian Premier cursing out his secretary. Nobody could tell the difference."
Then the elevator 'bings' as the doors whisper open. He'll gesture with one hand uncurling as he comments, "Age before beauty."

Natasha just stands there and waits patiently for the lift to come up and get them, when it does she glances inside it and starts ahead of him as he says that last part. "You're so funny I forogt to laugh!" She throws out an oldie but a goodie back at him, laced with sarcasm for the maximum effect of the old retro retort.

Once inside the lift she pushes the button without waiting for him to board, so that he has to hop in extra quick before the doors close and take her down to the mess level without him.

"I might though." She replies about the partner bit. "These guys are pretty dirty. Its related to that auction they tried to sell me off in when I was briefly imprisoned." She'd fought her way out of that 'slave auction' from a human trafficking organization, and she'd stolen a helicopter… it was a big action hero kind of night.

"I think this guy might still be after me." She says in a glum voice once they're inside, not that she's worried about it, because hell no! she never is. But it certainly doesn't please her. "He has one of my cell numbers. Is texting me taunting phrases now and then."

The casual agent and his black leather clad partner enter into the elevator and for Clint's part he makes that small hop needed with his shoulders twisting to the side to get on just in time. He tilts back towards her as she speaks and snorts at her 'comeback' such as it was.
Taking up his place standing beside her, Clint asks, "Did you tell him, 'new phone who dis?' I hear that works wonders." But Barton smirks sidelong at her as the elevator jerks into motion. He rocks back on his heels and looks at the door while they descend, the mechanisms of the car silent as they move. But he tilts his head to the side, "You angling to try and get him to agree to a meet?"
A beat as he darts another look sidelong at her, "Or just keeping that avenue of communication open just in case it might turn to an advantage later?"

Natasha is leaning back against the lift's glass wall, since this is one of the main lifts it is a glass booth that can look out onto the lobby when you get down low enough to those levels of the facility, but up here its just fogged out when its not display some sort of computer message able to be summoned up with voice commands.

"I haven't decided, rightly so." She replies to him. "And no, I haven't responded with anything. Which I suppose he's taken as an acknowledgement of having reached me. He's that kind of calculated after all." She glances over at Clint then. "Really if he's here he may very well be trying to setup a new slave trade here for his employers… though he wasn't necessarily into that kind of stuff directly, more just working for whoever paid him the best. Classic kinda charm."

With a little clear of her throat, she looks forward to the floors as they tick by on the display. "We'll see what happens. In the mean time, there's plenty of other things to keep busy with." She looks over at him and grins just a little. "Oh, and tell Cap 'good job' on letting that teleporting mutant out of captivity. He'll like that."

Turning to the side, Clint brings her more fully into his view and that just so happens to bring the city itself as well more prominently into his line of sight. He cocks an eyebrow as she recites to him some of her impressions of the target she's angling for. At her first answer he gives a small sort of shrug, as if accepting that might bear fruit but not necessarily endorsing it. But then when she offers the comment about charm he raises his eyebrows as if he was considering whether her head just spun around backwards and she said the sky was purple.
Whatever the end result might be he again shrugs and looks back to the door. "Well usually you're right about this stuff." Clint says, one of his rare compliments, then immediately takes it back as he adds, "Except when you ain't."
The door opens with a faint 'ding', revealing the more crowded floor of the commissary. Hawkeye extends a hand to hold open the door for her to precede him as he says, "Tell Cap good job about the teleporting mutant. Roger roger." Once they're out into the hallway, Clint nudges her on the shoulder. "C'mon, let's go grab some grub."

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