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Routine is a part of Clint's life. It includes training at the right time, getting coffee in his system at the right time, and getting set for the day at the right time. Various other facets are included there. Checking the feeds in the morning at HQ, checking on any progress in reports, and also the updates on his informant lines. Usually it's quick since those don't move too often, but today there's an exception.
One of the lines that he'd set out for a few select individuals had a message and it gave him an angle to contact his brother. Something about a meet, and something about a possible op. Could be good, probably bad. Whatever it is, it was enough that just before leaving the HQ he told his partner, "Hey, cover for me. Got some stuff I gotta take care of."
But then he pauses near his desk and scowls, "And who the hell keeps leaving mugs on my desk?"
Yet twenty minutes later he's sitting in a laundromat along the east side. Just a grungy hole in the wall that used to be a top of the line automat back in the 40s but now half the machines don't work and various older Czech women are doing their family's laundry on the large plastic tables that adorn the place. It's depressing, isolated, and smells terrible. But it's private.
*
While Clint may be a creature of habit and routine, Barney is not. The only 'routine' thing about his day is buzzing past a coffee cart in the morning so a SHIELD Junior Super Sleuth can shadow him to make Director Carter happy. Today, though, there is no buzzing the cart and the chances are better than even that said Junior Agent called in to report a 'negative sighting'.
This'll go on Barney's permanent record! Oooooo…
As if he cared.
Barney's got bigger problems than the wrath of a SHIELD agent. Three blocks out, there's an FBI op going on, and it's caught quickly by the former hired 'gun' before any of those suits actually looked up to see his face. A twist, a move, and down into the bowels of the earth, ie. the subway, and Barney Barton is gone again. He reappears a few blocks away from the derelict laundromat, and crosses the rest of the way, hands in his pockets, in 'casual wear', that is, not in a suit and tie. Brown hair is longer now, straight, his beard in that half-scratchy growth, and he sports a pair of sunglasses against the day's light.
Entering the laundromat finally, Barney nods to the women and wanders until he finds his brother in the little crappy place. "Man.. I should come here to do my laundry. Got all the makings of a proper hole." He sits down next to Clint with a *thump* and reaches to light a cigarette immediately. "Thanks, by the way, for showin' up."
*
Settled at the end of that bench seat in the laundromat, Clint's wearing his usualy brown leather jacket and jeans though he's got a pair of shades hanging in the pocket of his blue buttoned shirt. He spreads a hand slightly as if brushing past the words Barney's given him.
"Between the cigarette machines," He points slightly, a motion barely noticed. "Marks the audible dead zone, white noise generators in the dryers." He gives that understanding to his brother but then looks to the guy and casually tosses a Sports Illustrated at him with a smirk, "But try to act subtle if ya can."
Jocularity offered, and signalled by a smirk, Clint moves to business. "What do you need?"
*
Barney lights his cigarette, puffing a couple of times as he follows the gestures and the words of his brother. Definitely will be back if need be. Only in emergencies, though. Courtesy dictates that this is his brother's place. He's a guest. "Yeah, yeah.." and he laughs at the choice of magazine as he catches it awkwardly, the pages flapping. Doesn't even cause a blink from the women doing their work. "'S'not the swimsuit edition." Does that sound accusing? Absolutely!
"Guess we'll just chat about the weather, then.." He's kidding, really.
He keeps his tones at the same cadence as his other words, "Does she have the guts to go through with an order?" The ash on the cigarette is flicked off into one of those attached ashtrays on the chair, and he pulls on the cigarette again. "I wanna know if I should bother holdin' my breath."
*
Quick and to the point, Clint sort of eyes his brother sidelong, but then looks out across the room. He gets his own magazine, the New Yorker it seems. Though he casually opens it with the cover flipped around the back so he's just holding it with one page facing him. He gestures with it absently as he murmurs, "You mean a go order?"
Hawkeye looks away and gives a slow nod. "Yeah." If that's all he's got to ask it's gonna be a short conversation. But then he elaborates by saying, "Lemme tell you a story."
The younger brother looks back, "After the freak was on that show, he left a pair of presents. Two anomalies, unconscious, bound. Prolly transportable. But with them, who knows right?" He looks back towards the door and then goes on, "Coulda been an asset, but safety was at risk. So the anomalies were put down. So yeah, she can give the go."
There's a pause, then he eyes Barney, "You got one of those?"
*
"Yeah, but they didn't look human, did they." Barney looks through the magazine, searching for any hint of skin. Golf, no. Baseball picks? Nah.. "Easy to put down monsters, and I don't care how bleeding of a heart you got. Thing isn't us, it's easy. 'Not human'. Bang."
To the question, he nods slowly and chuffs a breath. "Almost. Then it was pulled." As Barney looks through the magazine, the cigarette dangles from his lips, and he pulls it out, holding it, exhaling the smoke from his lungs. "A couple women bickering about it. In the end, it was a no go." He glances to his brother, a humourless smile on his face, "So I was wondering if this was something I was gonna have to deal with for the rest of my career." Life. For the next six months. Insert any of those there. "'Cause I'd rather face the HUAC."
*
"Some department heads don't let any push back," Clint looks across the way, adjusting the way he holds his magazine to look at it leisurely, probably just looking at the comics. "Way we work is there's some give and take, cuz some initiative and retrospection's good when dealin' with the unknown."
After saying that the archer slides off the bench seat and gains his feet, streeeetching for a moment before heading to the change machine and sliding a dollar into it to get some quarters. The machine hums as he says, "You'll get to hear some of it if you stick around long enough, but once a decision is made you won't have to worry about a quibble of ethics."
That said he takes the four quarters and walks over to the nearest dryer, sliding them into the feed and twisting the dial to ratchet it up for another hour.
*
"Different than the Agency," Barney mutters. "Now, sounds like a committee. Nothing gets done then." Not completely true, of course.
The magazine is fussed with, and as Clint gets up to get coins for the dryer, Barney calls out to the Czech women, «Skazhite, kogda vy sdelali, babushka.» Tell me when you are done, grandmother. The women, one older than another, looks over to him and seems to give him long, considering looks before they nod and hurry in their tasks. Whatever it was they saw, perhaps they believe KGB?
Barney looks back at Clint and waits for his brother's return before, "Yeah.. but I could be dead of old age before that damned decision."
The cigarette is finished and stubbed out in that same ashtray, and he rises from his seat after tossing the magazine to the side and saunters over to where Clint is and leans against the wall. "What'cha think of that freak? I didn't watch any of it. God, couldn't shut people up about it later, though."
*
A small 'heh' comes from Clint as he watches his brother from afar, but then he returns to his seat and drops onto the bench, reclaiming his New Yorker and turning the page as if he were actually reading it. He looks across the way and for a time considers the babushkas tending to their laundry.
"Honestly, last few months I've felt outta my depth. I try ta keep my head down, focus on what's in front of me. What I can get my hands on and what I can do somethin' about." He shakes his head and then turns another page, considering an ad for an overly expensive restaurant in midtown.
"For me, the guy's a bastard and he makes my job harder so fuck him." He spreads his hands as if relinquishing responsibility. "Beyond that, that shit's beyond my pay grade."
*
Barney is the consummate professional. If Clint doesn't pick up on the fact that 'that freak' was the target, that's okay. He won't go any further on it. Instead, he chuckles as his brother takes a seat again, ostensibly waiting for that 'dryer load' to finish. "I like where I am. I just don't care. I do my job, go home at the end of the day. Have dinner, grab a shower, and go to bed." Paygrade or other.
He looks towards the door, and bounces off his leaning spot. "By the way, I'm not at my old apartment anymore. You've got my number, though. That still works. But, I'm gonna have to turn down any invite for Thanksgiving."
*
"That's comin' up?" Clint seems annoyed by the fact, him and holidays have never been a thing really. But he looks across the way towards Barney and says, "Yeah, well, don't go expectin' a Christmas card." He looks down at his magazine, and turns the page again. For a moment he considers letting the conversation peter out there and let them run their course. But for some reason he doesn't.
His brow furrows as he looks across the way at the Czech women, probably annoying them with his attention at this point. But then he says simply, "If you get told to make a run at him, you don't go close. You go long, take the shot, leave. Even then you're probably fucked."
For some reason he seems comfortable relaying this information, then he looks sidelong at Barney and there might even be a touch of concern in his narrowed gaze.
*
*Pfft*
"Man. I had a pair of socks all lined up for you. And a Red Ryder." Barney looks theatrically disgusted with his brother as he shakes his head. "There you go, screwin' up the holiday again." That last bit is said a little more gently. How many times had the boys been blamed for 'ruining everything'? For everything being 'their fault', whether singlely or together.
A soft laugh sounds from the older brother and he nods. "Not even gonna scope the place first." If the order's given, it'll be 'target of opportunity', as distant as he can get. "Even then.." Barney gives a rueful grin after. "You ain't gettin' the Barton millions. I'm leaving it all to some animal shelter."
Is he worried? Nah.. "Besides. I don't think she'll give it."
*
"Mebbe," Clint responds though he doesn't bet the farm on it, but he snorts at the offer of the Barton millions. "Ya know, if I ever kick it you may actually get a chunk of change. Been doing this gig for a while now, don't think I've spent any of it." He scritches the side of his cheek and on reflection he's probably pretty correct. His apartment is subsidized and pretty crummy, he has no hobbies to speak of and his gear is SHIELD issue, if he ever checked he might actually be pretty well off.
But then he looks sidelong at the man who was and became his brother. "Just nobody knows what the guy can do. Don't take any risks." For a moment he seems to let that hang there, then he adds. "When stuff started to get weird. We watched this one film of a guy doing his mumbo jumbo thing. Took him a bit, huffed, chuffed, seemed to focus himself and he started this fire with his mind."
Clint looks away but keeps talking, "This guy on that show, one of our experts said he managed to cast like seventeen different 'spells' in the space it took that other guy to just take a deep breath."
*
In turn, nothing Barney has is subsidized, nor has it ever been. Always on the outside and not always looking in, trying to come in from the cold. "I'll make it look like an accident." He's teasing! Really!
Barney lets out a breath and pulls out his pack of cigarettes again, lights one and waves the match out before he tosses the spent bit of cardboard and shoves the rest of the dwindling pack back into his pocket. "Nah.. no risks." He draws on the cigarette and lets it hang there a moment. "Good news, though. If I fail, I'm dead and I'll probably take half this country with me when he retaliates." Not 'if'. "I'll give you a heads up so you can get a flight outta Dodge." He's not dumb enough not to listen to the bit of intel, though. He's processing everything, regardless of whether or not it seems even remotely possible.
"It's not impossible." Barney was told Loki can be killed. It's just hard.. but not completely improbable.
"Where'd they take you?" Barney shifts his position and heads back to the chairs, sitting down. His free hand runs through straight hair, pulling it back off his face briefly before it simply falls back into place. "You know.. after." When they were young. "Where'd they take you?"
*
A small frown touches Clint's features and for a moment he shuts down. Oh talking about gods and kill orders and black ops are fine. Talk about the past and he goes mum. So for a time there's silence between them as the driers run and the old women fold their clothes.
But just as it might seem like no answer would ever come he finally pipes up. "I'm told I went to an orphanage. Foster homes. Told I didn't talk til I was eight. Only then was to tell a teacher to fuck himself." Clint smirks and shakes his head again, but he looks distant. "Lots of people told me lots of things."
He sets the magazine down and then pushes it away as if he were done with it. "Lots of people told me lots of things. I just kept my head down."
*
Barney watches his little brother, both of them sitting in silence for what seems an eternity. He nods when words finally come, the cigarette burning away without being touched for those heartbeats.
"They told me you didn't make it. I figured they were lyin' to me because out of everyone, you were the one that was important. So, I ran away. Fosters. Boys Town. Wasn't runnin' away in my head, though. I was runnin' to-."
He nods his head soon after and looks away. "Yeah. I know. After awhile, it gets to you."
Barney stubs out the next cigarette and rises from his spot. "Should go. Gotta keep an eye on someone. She's not in a good way and, well.. I'm all she's got." He makes it sound like she's got the short end of the stick. "Burgers tonight." And last night. "You take care of yourself, okay?"
*
"Yeah, you too." Clint gives a nod though he doesn't seem to move too much. But he comes back to the here and now and it's signified by the smirk that comes to life upon the corner of his mouth. "Try not to lose both yer balls, ya whipped bastard."
But hey, the small wave of his hand is given friendly enough.
*