1964-05-31 - Hitting the Mats
Summary: Sharon and Clint encounter at the gym. A hard spar follows.
Related: None
Theme Song: None
sharon clint 

The transition from a freelancer who was bucking on a few jobs is a sharp one back to a salaried position with an elite cadre of individuals, especially considering this thing that Stark's got him doing, yeah it's not exactly like anything he's done before.

For one thing the number of operatives is smaller, there's only one team, and the day to day workload is much much less. It leaves a lot of free time to follow up on other aspects of the job, but for a workaholic like Clint, a guy who tends to put in long hours and large efforts… the pace is less a blessing and more a curse.

Consider today for him. He'd spent time working up training schedules for those that would want them, offered a few scenarios for people to consider, parsed some of the data that would help them in the future when operating together. And then lunch time hit. So once work hours were over he focused on training. Live-fire drills at first, moving through the current NATO/Warsaw Pact series of weapons, on to less conventional ones. Eventually the sun set and nobody had come by. Eventually he shifted away from taking advantage of Stark's largesse in regards to ammo. Eventually he started to focus on his body.

A good work out usually involves a few dozen laps around the gym until a good sweat is in place and his limbs are complaining. Then some reps with the free weights and some of the muscular development equipment.

It's only when he's good and fatigued that he starts to work the heavy bag, slamming his fists into it over and over with a steady 3-2 combination that has him crossing, stepping back, countering. At times he rubs at his eyes with his forearm, trying to keep the sweat out of his eyes as it trickles down his brow.

Eventually the sound of the air conditioner kicks on, probably just from him trying to push himself fully.


If Clint is finding himself a little bored, Sharon is going completely out of her mind since coming back to the US. The CIA still hasn't found her work, she gave every level of debrief necessary, and then they told her to take a 'vacation'. She did have a lot of time saved. She had no clue what to do with it. So, newly back from her last debrief session, her temper up and shoulders tense, she's decided to avail herself of the offerings the mansion has. Steve said she could use anything she needs, so here she is.

The woman that steps into the room is no one familiar. She looks as close as possible to your generic, girl next door dirty blonde as they come. There might be a FAINT family resemblence to a certain Peggy Carter, but one would really need to have an eye for such things. She's in gear to work out, close fitting black pants, a black sports bra, sneakers. She's already in the process of wrapping her knuckles when she realizes there is someone else on the heavy bag already. She arches a brow, trying not to look impatient, but she's impatient with the world these days. Instead, she just studies him working out.


Clint, even though he's distracting himself, his mood isn't sour. Sure he's tearing holy hell out of himself, but in some ways he's at ease with some of the aspects of this new world he's embarked on. So even as he's going through that rotation, jab-jab-jab, straight, cross… he keeps an eye out. Then when he spots her he takes a moment to lean against the bag, breathing a bit heavily and wiping at his brow with the back of his own wrapped hand.

For a moment their eyes meet and he doesn't look away at all. There's just this cocky quirk of an eyebrow and a hint of a grin settles onto the corner of his mouth. He offers a nod in greeting, mainly seen in the lift of his eyebrows and a slight tilt of his chin. But then he goes back to the series of punches.

Without him looking straight at her she's probably more free to gauge him, get a feel for him. He's pretty good, trained, clearly pretty tired what with his punches getting a bit sloppy. He's wearing loose jersey shorts, grey in color and coupled with a white t-shirt that's sweated through. Sure this is the mansion of the 'Avengers' whatever they are to be, but he seems at ease with it. Or at least comfortable in himself.


The woman takes a few more steps forward towards him, not quite going to swipe the bag from him, but getting closer and at least showing her interest. "…You gonna be much longer? I feel like beating the shit out of something and they don't let you do it to random civilians in this country." Sharon's voice deadpans, mostly joking… Mostly. She then settles back on her heels, watching the way he works, how trained he is, looking for any holes or weaknesses in his technique.

"…Favouring your left shoulder. Old injury?" Sharon asks casually, trying to make the only sort of small talk she knows how to make — Work and fights. She settles into beginning to stretch, finally. The patterns that come from military training and service, he might recognize thos.


Looking at her from around the bag, Clint steadies it for a second before drawing back and firing another few punches into it. His smirk comes to life, like a kid who's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but who also is entirely unrepentant about it. "I was thinkin' about it," He's got this drawl, southern or something? Hard to pin down.

But then he cocks an eyebrow as she makes her comment, then slips away to stretch. He's shameless, at least in the current mood he's in. He'll watch her move, and let his gaze linger on the lines of her form as she stretches. Not just as a man considering the physique of a fine looking woman, but enjoying it all the same.

"Maybe," He answers her, though she might hear the amusement in his tone of voice. "Or mebbe I'm feignin' it so that if we ever go against each other I'll have an edge on ya assumin' I'm winged." If she meets his gaze again he'll let the grin grow just a touch, but then he disappears behind the bag again.

"You don't happen ta turn big and green when ya get angry, do ya? Or mebbe were bitten by a radioactive critter?"


The woman's words are as completely neutral as it can get, which is strange. Normally, someone has an accent, even a few little tinges behind certain consonants. But not Sharon Carter. She's been trained in the perfect, neutral mid-atlantic nothing. As generic as her pretty looks, though they are slightly betrayed by her body. As she moves and stretches, it's quite clear she's nothing but long, lean, lethal muscle. The tight packed, toned muscle that women get over years of strenght training. It's hard, with female hormones, to put on a lot of bulk. But she's strong never the less.

She shifts over to her other side, focusing on stretching out the left from fingertips, to ribs, to legs. SHe doesn't seem to mind him watching. Either she doesn't notice or she doesn't care. "I never assume anything except that all I have to do is be better than you. I generally manage it pretty well." She deadpans quietly. Not in the tone of a threat, just simple fact.

"And…no. I do not turn big and green. Nor have I been bitten by anything radioactive. I… uh… Don't really work or live here. Captain Rogers was nice enough to let me crash while I figure out a new place in the city, or get my next assignment. The gym is better than some random hotel." SHe half shrugs and goes back to her final stretches. As he studies her closer, he will see some scars on her frame. More knife wounds than bullets, but at least two bullet wounds to her left side too. She's seen action.


"Ahh," His own accent is usually prevalent when he's at ease, so here at this time of night, there's no hiding it. "That's mighty kind of Captain Rogers, he's a good fella. Nice, all clean collar and everythin'." The tall man smiles a bit behind the punching bag, but then he makes a small 'hnh' of sound as if considering something.

"You seem fairly on edge, and with a mess of energy. If you want I'll give you somethin' ta take out some of yer aggressions on. That is if you promise not ta make me cry too bad." He holds up his wrapped hands as if she held him at gun point, but there's no mockery in his words. Sure she might have been hassled in the past, but he seems to be on the up and up for the most part.

But then he adds, whether she says yea or nay, "By the bye, my name's Clint." He furrows his brow a moment, then adds, "Er, Hawkeye if we're doin' the codename thing."


The woman considers that, her pale eyes flickering from the handsome, midwestern man, over to the now free punching bag, and back to Clint. It had been a long time since she actually sparred with someone she wasn't trying to kill (or vice versa). Sharon almost seems wary, but she finally gives him a slight nod. "I could go a round or two on the matts. Don't hold back just because I'm blonde, hmm?" She dead pans, but those words definitely have a bit of a challenge. SHe's probably got a chip on her shoulder about a WHOLE lot of things, including being a woman in a man's world.

She finishes the last few stretches and then offers her hand forward to him. "Sharon. Or… Agent 13, if we're doing that. They didn't give us fancy names. Just numbers." And she got lucky number 13. How kind of the CIA. It was like someone had been banking on her to fail from the very beginning. "…Sparring to yeilding? First blood? Pinning?"


"Yeah, those blondes. So ditzy and absent-minded." He smirks as he starts to twirl his own blonde dirty blonde hair above his brow between his thumb and forefinger. Then he moves to undo the hand wraps, holding one up to his mouth and tearing at it with his teeth. He starts to unwind it even as he meets her gaze while walking across the gymnasium floor.
"Until we call uncle and don't wanna play anymore?" She might be by the book, formal. Clint… is not. She's on edge, he's at ease, and what is more he probably figures this is what she needs. To take a few swings at a guy who won't mind too much.
Stepping onto the mats, causing them to expel a low puff of compressed air while he walks. He looks back towards her, "I won't hold back, but if you have the desire, please feel free to be gentle with me." Maybe his manner right now is a tactic, to get her to go and let loose on an annoying guy.


"While I'm pretty sure I can put you in the matts, if you are here, part of this little team Steve's got going? I'm pretty damn sure you can hold your own. Might even surprise me and hand me my ass. Just don't hold back." That is what Sharon needs, really. Some pain, some thrill, something to feel anything other than the bitterness about being pulled off assignment and how very lost and foreign she feels back in her home land. It simply didn't feel like home any more.

She follows him in motions of unwrapping her hands, not needing it if she's not going to be wailing on the bag, like intended. Once the tape is thrown off to the side, she starts a slow circle around him. Figuring his pace, any actual holes in his defense. Just letting herself get her feet beneath her before she goes for a quick arm lock, feinting at his shoulder first then her hands drop to his wrist quickly. She knows he's got weight on her, so she needs to use leverage against him.


She has no hesitation, that's interesting on some level. No trepidation to her movements as she slides around on the mat, circling him with him countering the circle by going the opposite way. His eyes hold hers and that small half-smile never really leaves the corner of his mouth. But then she steps in and suddenly they're grappling close as she seeks to grasp his arm and wrist.

He does his best to keep her from getting the edge, them coming close together each trying to get their hands on the other and seeking a significant grip. His shoulder slams against hers and they each dig in, bare feet pushing into the fabric of the mats. The side of his head is close to hers as they both press, their legs entwining as each tries to trip the other, then footsteps to the side.

This close she's fresh, hasn't been at it for long, almost a complete opposite to him… considering he's been working out for hours so far. There's a sheen of sweat upon his brow and along the hollow of his neck. He smells of masculine exertion, a heady musk of rough exercise as he grunts faintly when he presses to the side.
But then he feints one way and twists, trying to drag her over his hip for a typical judo throw, one she's seen a million times.


A million times, indeed. Sharon knows the throw, so it's easy to tuck her body into it and just turn it into a roll, coming back up on her feet as smoothly as she went down. She arches a brow to him, "Sure you're up for this, old man? THat was so telegraphed." But with that little bit of almost flirtatious taunting, she's moving back into him, going for a fully different manuever. A pure tackle. Shoulder to his solar plexus, she uses her slightly shorter height to get him at the middle and plow him down to the ground. It was violent, fast, not all that classy, but generally an effective move. She's on top of him within a heartbeat, if he goes down, trying to roll him over wiht her legs alone and grasp at his wrist.


It was the tuck and shift in momentum that prevents him from following through after her. It causes him to stumble back a half-step, letting her roll and come up cleanly without exposing herself to him. He does have time, however, to wipe his forearm across his chin and shoots a grin at her, "I think I found yer problem. You talk too much instead fightin' /OOF!/"

His words break as suddenly instead of getting to her feet she pushes off against the mats and plows square into his mid-section. There's a brief moment of him falling back uncontrolled, feet slipping on the mats. She's able to seize the superior position, trying to turn him. Yet he keeps his wrist back, linking arms to try and resist her pull even as they roll together, legs entwined and tensing as he seeks purchase.


Poor Clint. If nothing else, it felt better to just put someone down on the mats. There's a lot of anger in Sharon, the sort of anger she has no clue how to really get out and now it's finding it's way out on his body. Breath quickening, pulse now double timed as adrenaline and effort pour through her frame, Sharon pants hard against him, a little, "Nnngh-" Escaping her lips as she fights with his slightly stronger frame to get his wrist and arm back. She's still pinning on top of him, not willing to let go of the advantage she's gained, but she's not quite able to flip him over and finish the deal.

"You… like … chatting too, big guy…" She huffs out between a few ragged pants, struggling a few more moments before, quite abruptly, she completely removes all pressure against him. The plan is for him to still be pushing forward and as that opposing force disappears, she'll use the jerk forwards and surprise he'll feel to pull him in the opposite direction and shoulder lock him that way. It may or may not work.


The mats are warm with friction upon his back where the t-shirt's creeped up, exposing the line of his form, the subtle tensing of his core as he twists beneath her and then exerts strong pressure to slooowly seem to gain the edge on her, his physical upper body strength more than hers as he pushes. There's a low grunt from him, exhaled against her shoulder in a warm breath as he tries to shift to the side. But then she gives in to the effort and suddenly he's pressing forward further than he planned, twisting his hips enough and losing purchase.
It's just enough of a give for her to slip to the side and snake one of her arms around his shoulder, trying to link hands and to twist, to try and bend his arm and put him into a painful submission hold. It's close, and she can feel the musculature under his skin shifting and tensing like whip cords tightening.

There's a scowl and then suddenly there's a short sharp /jab/ into her side just between the ribs, enough to cause a short /stab/ of pain and to escalate the fight rather abruptly. In that short window he twists to the side and gets clear of her grip, at first on his knees and then pushing himself to his feet. Oh it's going to be that way. Sure they were just grappling, but using that short strike… yeah it's a new ball game and she can see it in his eyes.


The jab to her midsection definitely hurt, but in a good way. SHe grunts, all breath leaving her for a heartbeat or two, but she's not the usual woman, or even fighter, who is going to let that stop her in any way. Sharon's managed to learn how to numb herself, to fight through pain, shock and worse. So, barely breathing for a moment or two, she grabs at his arm again and keeps pulling it in the same direction of the jab. She's using his weight and momentum against him. Meantime, as she pulls him forward, her knee comes up, meant to collide with the side of his skull. They were going to be lucky if they made it out of this fight without one of them suffering from a concussion.

Once she finishes that motion, she does pull back just a bit, dragging in a ragged breath now that her lungs remember how to work again. She doesn't take long to recover, though. She doesn't have the time. She's then kicking out, towards the back of his knee, intending on putting him down on the mat again. If she can keep up the attacks in rapid succession, she might just wear him out.


To be fair, even at his best, Clint might have a hard time handling Sharon Carter. She's got the training, has the conditioning, but what's more she has the mentality. She's not playing at sport in this small impromptu sparring session. She is a woman of intensity. Normally at this moment it might trigger some warning lights, cause a guy to hold back, de-escalate as they could. But then most folks aren't Clint Barton.

Still run ragged, still with slightly heavier than normal limbs from all the exertion, he's able to keep up with her for now. When he's getting to his feet she pulls him in with that grasp on his arm, aiming to take him in the head with her knee. She'll feel the brunt of the impact strike soundly upon his collar bone, a short /unnf/ of a breath torn from him as she gets her leg set.

But then she tries to strike at the back of his knee and kick into the back of it, only for him to shift that leg, unlocking the knee and not balancing on it, instead stepping into her movement and planting his foot, then bringing his own knee up and into her side, trying to rob the breath from her. If it connects he'll get a wry grin as he retreats a step or two, perhaps just to catch a momentary respite for him to comment. "C'mon girl. You got a mad on for someone, but they ain't here. Come and teach me a lesson if ya can."


He's right. She does have a mad on for someone, but it's not him. Part of Sharon knows this isn't fair, the way she's treating him, but that shit eating grin and the challenge in his voice actually says that he is enjoying this. So, she huffs out to him quietly, blue eyes staring hard. "…Not your lesson to learn, but if you're offering…" Sharon almost growls out, and then she's on him again.

Not a tackle to his middle, but she rushes forward and actually puts a foot straight into his hip, *climbing* up his side and wrapping her other thigh across his shoulder with a violent swing. The motion is taken to entirely throw him off balance and ride him down tot he mat again. Granted, she'll fall hard with him, but she's prepared for it and he might not be. Or, she might just be riding his back if he keeps his balance.


If Clint Barton has a talent other than archery it's for getting someone to rise to newly found heights of anger and it usually ends up focused on him. Sometimes it's a jibe or jab of wit at a villain or a guy, but to be fair just as often it's to cause a (usually attractive) woman to scowl and fume and gnash her teeth at the obstinate archer. Right now this talent is likely to get him a busted head or a broken limb considering the gal that's riled up at the moment. In fact at this moment he'd been expecting her to just be at a normal level of annoyed… not quite this.

He hadn't expected her to make that feint and dart in, plant her bare foot into the bend of his hip and climb up onto him, swinging her other leg around his throat and then twist her hips to use the momentum and take him down face first onto the mats. It's one of those moves that if the person isn't trained well or ready for it then it can end with a dislocated neck or fractured spine, so in some ways… maybe she's paying him a compliment. Or then again maybe she's just that mad.
There's an oof/whumpf as he's spun around and then rode down into the mats to hit the ground with both hands, his legs trying to gain purchase, it ends with her astride him with a leg under his throat and her thighs on either side of his head, almost like a wild gal riding a bucking bronco in a honkytonk. He's already trying to sit up as quick as he can, one hand shooting up along the inside of her calf, his sweat-slickened neck blazing with warmth and held there by her in control, for the moment at least.


Despite his attempts to sit up, despite his strenght in trying to buck her off, Sharon is *strong*. She's the toned, wiry kind of strength that will always win as long as she can get her position and pull into the hold. It's finding the opening to get into that hold which is always the challenge, but she found it. Now, her shorts have ridden up, half pressing bare, toned thigh against his throat as she's wrapped tightly around him, breathing hard. She squeezes her thighs JUST a bit tighter, enough to faintly cut of breath, listening to his fight and feeling his struggle. SHe'll keep it there until she knows he's given up or fallen unconscious.

"…And who likes to talk too much?" She asks him, only half breathless, as she leans upside down, looking at him from where she's positioned overtop of his body. Even as she speaks, she doesn't loosen her thighs. He'll have to tap out or pass out, at this point.


A rough smirk is seen on his steadily reddening features as he sees her ponytail bob as she says 'something' not like he can really hear her clearly with his blood pounding in his ears. He crinkles his nose at her, and continues to scrabble against the fabric of the mats, his toes digging into the compressing plastic. She'll feel him buck a few times, trying to twist her off or at least test her dedication to the chokehold and finding her rather… intensely of the mind to keep it.

So after a moment he'll tap twice on her outer thigh, just two quick slaps as he gives her a nod and is she lets him free he'll roll over onto his back for a moment to catch his breath and recover from the choke. "Aww man, that…" He sits up slightly, lifting his head to meet her eyes with a smirk of his own, "That was some crazy kung fu junk, girl."

A shake of his head is given as he then turns over and pulls himself back to his feet, albeit roughly. "So one nothin'. My turn."


When he taps free, she holds it just a moment or two more, a second of proof that she's not scared and not going to be gentle, but then she quickly undoes her leg from around his throat. SHe kicks it up and out, immediately coming back to her feet in a defensive stance. SHe's ready for him to be bullshitting her and attack again, even though he's yeilded according to sparring rules. But he's not attacking again, he's just speaking, so she relaxes a bit more and arches a brow.

"…Kung fu junk? THat's just what keeps you alive. No fight should be gone into expecting it to be anything but a fight to the death. Even with friends." That explains the stance she's keeping, still waiting for him to fire back at her. "…Your turn? For what? If you want to go again, I'm here…" She smirks.


"Lady you are intense," It's all he offers to her for now, no playful jibe or casual repartee. She wants to be serious, then let's be serious. So he brings his hands up in front of him, squaring with her. It's not to the grapple they're going at the moment, at least not immediately. Instead he starts to treat it like she says, fight for real, just another perp who needs an ass-kicking. Then again, this is sorta the way he likes it.

A step, two, then he'll step into her space with a smooth combination, shifting back and forth between fists and following up with a low kick at the side of her knee, then her ankle. A quick step-step-whumpf-wuf! He exhales sharply as each impacts with her guard, exhaling a short, 'Haaah-ha' as he pushes on her, trying to get her to retreat a few steps then pushing in to chamber a sidekick and aiming to knock her clean off the mats with the strength of it.

Yet as they move on the mats, the only sounds in there being the sounds of their breath and their bodies moving together in time, he focuses fully on her. Right now she's the entire world, now if only she didn't smell so damn good.


And that smooth combination? Over all? It lands home. Sharon takes the fist to the side of her face before ducking the other but then her ankle is gotten. She grunts in pain, not stopping, but she felt that. She stumbles back just enough to swing herself around before he totally kicks her off the matts. She takes that kick HARD, hard enough that she's going to be bruised tomorrow, and her leg buckles. But she doesn't toss back off the mat. She doesn't go down. She's on one knee, staring at him over a now bloodied nose, and she doesn't care. Breathing hard, expression dead serious. SHe's still fighting.

Then she's lashing out, her own round house punch coming, straight to the side of his face. SHe follows it up with a jab, meant to knock him back enough she can stumble back up to her feet and at least gain some equal footing, if not advantage. Bleeding, breathless, bruised and hurting, she doesn't stop. She rains another two punches on him, trying to put him on the defensive before her foot comes out to the back of his knee. If she can put him down again, she'll pin him again.


She really does have a mad on, that's for sure. After that kick she's able to put him on the defensive, getting him to give back the ground he gained just seconds ago as she comes in with those blurringly fast punches. The first few slam into his forearms, his shoulders, bruises are going to be rampant on them both for the next few days. He's able to slide the off and out of the way, and even is able to bring his leg up in time for her when she hits it that he accepts it on his calf, shifting his stance back and back.

Then when she extends again he tries to take advantage. She tries to put him down, he takes it, shifts, then tries to grab her wrist and bring it forwards as he ducks down, attempting to pull her off balance and stretch her over his shoulders as he bends, one arm trying to snake behind her knee and help her /over/ his shoulders and flipping her down towards the mats. Yet it's something she's seen before, a Kata Guruma throw with him holding onto her arm as he tries to complete it, making her twist at the end so she doesn't get hurt too badly should he be successful.


The punches and violence continues. Her skin damp with sweat, smacking against him, breath coming in fast pants. Adrenaline is winning now, and she's not bothering to old back, even the list. It means she takes the hits, part of her numbed to such things. SHe's been trained and built to take such pain, he'd see it now. She tosses herself into another flurry into his arms and shoulders, trying to keep him entirely off balance.

THen he dips into that throat, giving into one of her attacks for a moment and, in turn, he has advantage on her. She cannot stop herself from being thrown, but she twists mid air, to wrap her leg around the front of his throat. She plans to take him down with her. And that she does. Just at the last moment, using her momentum from his throat atop of everything. She drags him down, the back of her knee across the front of his throat. SHe keeps it pinned there for several heartbeats, squeezing a bit harder, almsot dangeorusly so. But then something in her realizes what she's doing. He wasn't actually her enemy. Abruptly, she drops him and scrambles back, breathing hard…"…Sorry. Sorry."


Again the archer is eating the mat with a heavy /thud/, swirled around and hitting hard, only to have her giving him that murderous look in her eyes. Again he gives a quick short sharp tap to her outer leg, shaking his head as he takes a deep breath once freed, his expression rather incredulous, amused… but it's sort of a bruised amused.

Rolling to the side and then pulling himself back upright he laughs, "Girl, you should come with a warning label." He wipes at his chin and the small beadlet of blood that's barely visible. He takes a breath and flares his hands as if trying to stay her from coming at him again. "Remind me never to get you mad directly at me, even your secondary growliness is enough ta take my breath away n'all."


While neither of them technically won, Sharon isn't willing to go back into attacking him. She doesn't trust herself not to really hurt him now. She breathes hard, wiping a little bit of blood from her nose as she watches him through pale blue, hardened eyes. "…Sorry. Been a long… Long time since I just sparred someone. Instincts still kick in." Sharon admits quietly, the confession being that her instincts are to disable or kill someone. That's where she's been the last too many years.

She walks gingerly over towards the towel she brought in, definitely hurting almost as much as he is, but she holds it well as she dabs sweat and blood from her face. "I won't ever be mad at you… Long as you're not some commie or chink spy." The woman admits, no shame about the horrid slang she uses. She's still an all American CIA good old boy. Just with tits.


"There goes my weekend," Clint says, and perhaps it'd work for a few things she said weirdly enough. He gets to his feet and grimaces at one of those red marks on his arms that's going to turn into one of those really angry yellow bruises with time. He takes a deep breath and then says, "But thanks for the work out. I'd been…" He looks askance, gaze drifting away as he looks out over all the equipment he'd used, and just in the few quick falls with her… he finally feels like he can get some sleep.

Shaking his head he finishes up his words by murmuring, "Just been havin' a devil of a time catchin' zzzs. Though I got this feelin' I'm gonna be regrettin' this in the morning."


The woman casually towels herself off, dirty blonde hair still slightly sticking to the side of her face. Sharon was exhausted, feeling the fight in her arms, and happy with the challenge herself. It was the best she'd felt since returning, not that she could admit that. She gives him a quiet nod, "…Probably. BUt you asked for it. And… we both needed it. HOpefully the sleep is worth it." SHe mutters with a wiry sort of smile.

That done, she moves for the door, like she'd never even been there. It wasn't about the fight or the winning. THe energy expendutire helped. "Nice meetin' you, Hawkeye. I'm sure we'll go another round sometime…" And with that reassurance, she disappears out the door and down the hall. Other than his new aches and bruises, it's almost like she didn't exist at all.


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