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Clint Barton is a man of his word. Except for those times when he isn't. Luckily this is one of those times where he said he was gonna do something and he followed through. Sure things are busy with the whole 'Avengers' thing. It's a different gig, requiring different talents. Stark's a good boss, but right now… there isn't exactly a huge demand for action, especially from their mostly human member, Hawkeye.
So as the saying goes, idle hands are the devil's plaything. Left to his own devices he first came up with some training schedules for the 'new blood' on the team. But that can only eat up so many hours. When the day ends, he'd find himself with extra time. Eventually, he figured… he should try to use those hours to be a human being for once and take some time off. Novel concept.
So the Princess received a call from the lobby of her hotel. A Mr. Barton. He came up, pitched her his idea of seeing the sights of the great city of Manhattan. And surprise, she was amenable.
Out and about, it felt like the first true day of Summer. It was warm, the sun was shining, and when they walked through Central Park, everything was green and growing. The gigantic city definitely had its upside.
The whole bevy of museums were visited. American History. Natural History. Aviation. They even managed to swing by the zoo. Each of those places probably set off a myriad of conversations. Particularly at points about how American history was wrong. Or how some of those animals in the museum were still alive on Themyscira. Not to mention the sadness of a zoo in 1964.
Yet it was still a decent time. Sure she was still a bit of a hoitsy toitsy princess in her own way. But she could laugh, and her reaction to ice cream was amusing. So at the end of the day, with the sun setting slowly, she was probably still feeling fresh and active. Clint, despite all his rather intense physical conditioning, was feeling the strain of walking a good bit of miles in one day. So they stopped for dinner at the Rustic Kitchen, one of the better places that allowed diners to sit outside on the wide sidewalk fenced in, with the scenic Central Park opposite them.
It's while taking a sip from his glass of Sangria that he looks across the table, already reaching for one of the small buns of bread and tearing it in half. "Alright, Princess. Verdict?"
The world itself never stopped for Diana. Not even though there was a wish for it to. A wish for companionship by the name of the only man she's come to know, not personally, but just in his general company and extended conversations. But the world never stopped; so Diana decided that she herself wouldn't. Currency was exchanged in a very sketchy way so that she could purchase what she knew to purchase in such a little time, trinkets and bobs that were sent back to Themyscira with her, a visit with her mother and a friendly sparring with her sisters and a long bath in their sacred pools.
And clothing. For it was told that the sun would be at its hottest in it's season, judging from the little woman in the box. She needed clothing that was airy and all of her own.
Silks were donned for the day in high cut off shorts that show the leggy womans figure. Loose and airy, yet still clinging to a sense of modesty even though her arms were laid bare near the shoulders. A golden belt wraps around her waist to sinch, hair braided into a bun with sandals that strap high up her calf.
For if they were going out on the town? She needed to feel at her best.
And it was a wonderful walk. Questions were asked and answers, if not readily readable in front of her were answered. There was laughter, a point. And an offer to visit her homelands as long as her mother permits. She would state her case. She would present that this was the only man who was not terrible, foolish, and quite possibly filled with greed, unless it came to indulging in a vice that makes his natural aroma smell.. smoky. And then there was dinner, of which she'd order cheeses, fruits and veggies along with a glass of Sangria as well, one of which she herself had never tasted.
Her thoughts?
"It is interesting." She states, lifting the glass to take a sip. "There is innovation in your history. Ingenuity, the need to be better and to preserve the past. I do believe the world would be much better if those beasts were freed and not put on display, but I do understand why." The glass was politely placed upon the table as she shifts to the side, one leg crossed over the other, her foot bobbing restlessly.
"What called my people to your attentions were the murder of your worlds leader. The invasion of the others from the stars. The organizations that were damaged by such a thing and the lack of.. as we saw, care to your fellow man. Which is still in itself completely obvious by the treatment of those people who do not share the color of your skin, even quite possibly the way you breathe and eat. I am still on the fence of this place. To help or not. But there is a certain charm, a wonder here that I cannot myself deny."
Nodding slowly as he listens, Clint spreads his hands a bit, flaring them as if admitting he did not have all the answers. "Trust me, I've made most of my living dealing with the worst sides of humanity, or rather our society." He dabs his bread into a subtle bowl of honeyed butter then bites off a piece. "If there's one thing we've had prominent in our society it's our culture turning against others. Raising arms against 'the other'."
Clint finishes the bread with another bite, then lifts his napkin to the corner of his mouth. He leans forwards against the table. "You could argue it has to do with the scarcity of resources, or the crucible of Winter that early European cultures had to deal with. But it gave them an edge, a difference in thinking. Is it laudable, not necessarily. But society as it is wouldn't exist without it."
There's a pause then he curls a hand around the base of his glass. "Now is our society worth maintaining? I don't know. I'd like to say so, but I'm a bit biased being a part of it."
He looks askance for a moment, considering the traffic as it drives on by. "But we have our up points too. You realize we're the first culture to truly value freedom of speech n'all? To have the whole idea of inalienable rights? But do we match the execution. I dunno."
But then he seems to realize he's given voice to some thoughts of his own, and perhaps rode off on the topic of conversation. So he looks away, a little embarassed, smirks sidelong at her and then adds. "In any case. I liked the monkeyhouse."
"And everyone else that does not fit into that little box.." Diana comments, mostly upon the raising of the arms and nothing else at all. But with her plate of food in front of her, she carefully and daintily eats, trusting herself to not interrupt the conversation and his rebuttal with his words by scraping her fork against the glass, or chewing too loud, or being generally rude. Every now and then as she watches him, there was a little curl of a smile, one that fades almost immediately as she takes a sip, or a bite of food, or her eyes look away at a passing figure to study as if they were a threat, or the most interesting thing there was..
"The first culture -here-. Yes. Admittedly there are other cultures not my own who have taken to hear the voices of men, women, and even children and taken as they are valued." Then it was her turn to smile, her head tilting in attempts to catch his gaze. The conversation was clearly over upon that subject, for monkeyhouses were mentioned and her dark eyes light with a bit of glee that she had never shown anyone else in this world.
"It's a strange thing!" She speaks, so much that the food was forgotten. "How can one capture such a thing and put it in a box.." She gestures with her fingers. "..and inside that box, create an environment that is outside our current. And the aviary.." Her eyes glance up, then down again. "..and the houses of worship. Inspiration from the Gods. Or.. in this case, God.." Now that was a debate that she herself does not want to get into. There were still secrets that she's held.
"Tell me, Mr. Barton. What are your dreams? What holds you to this place? And if given the chance to be worshipped in your own right, would you give up this life of mediocrity?"
"First off, lady you just called me mediocre. In some states those are fightin' words." But his smirk might allay the idea that he had actually taken umbrage. He does hold up a finger, however, and goes on. "Secondly, what makes you think I'm not? I'll have ya know the name of Clint Barton in certain circles is looked on with much regard."
He eyes her with mock severity, then adds. "/Much/."
But then he waves his hands aside as if brushing away his own objection and then says, "But…" He lets that word hang there, a pregnant pause as he looks away, then back to her. "I sort of have never given it much thought. Dreams…" Clint rubs the back of his neck thoughtfully, as if only now allowing his mind to shift away. He furrows his brow as the answers come to him and he realizes that the truth of those words might not exactly be the topic for polite company.
He takes a deep breath and eyes their nearest neighbor, perhaps gauging if they're in ear shot. But then he looks back to her and says, "To be completely honest with you, Diana." He first name murmured, signalling a certain informality as he adds, "I've lived my life as a soldier. Moving ahead, from one problem to another. Moved between different people having me fight for them. Whenever peace comes around… I tend to find something else to fight."
Another pause then he says, "I guess I just used to always assume I'd eventually find someone better than me and then it'd be over." A small wan smile is there, then he shrugs.
Diana draws back in her seat, her hands preparing to raise in surrender and apologizes until she recognizes the tone that he takes with her. And she was all smiles there after, her shoulders lightly lifting and falling in a quiet laughter as she gives a slight shake of her head. "You do not wish for me to answer that question." And she didn't want to! As of now, what she knows of him, his life is completely .. boring.
And once again, she listens. Her hands falling upon the table as her forearm brushes against her half eaten food, taken soon to nudge it into the middle of the table as she leans forward. Perhaps she was saddened by his revelation, for her shoulders slump just a touch as her head slowly shakes. And then it was her turn to joke, even though her features create a deadpan that would possibly think she serious.
"Then it truly is over for you, Mr. Barton. You have been in my company for this long, time is biding." She reaches for a nearby napkin, then politely dabs her lips. "Do you wish for sunset now, or is there another thing you would like to do in your final days?"
"Pfft," Is his succinct rebuttal. But then he goes on to elaborate, "Just because you can lift a tree with yer pinky finger doesn't mean you wouldn't end up cryin' after I showed you all the many many secret techniques and tactics a man of my repute is skilled in." He gives a solemn nod. "Just pray there is never a day when we have to cross the proverbial swords, Princess. On that day you will be left wondering how it was that your mom never taught you about the Tibetan Death Touch."
He reaches for another piece of bread and tears it in two as if making a point, then grins. "Or the dangerous indian burn. Or the ever deadly wet willie." He points at her with a stern look, one eye scrunching up as he points. Then points again as if driving the point home.
"But, to be fair, I also thought there might be a time when I get too old to do this whole thing. It's a young man's game and all. I thought maybe I'd retire somewhere. Farm. Farmhouse. Meet some gal who can put up with me." He gives a small shrug.
Finally the veil breaks, Diana began to laugh as she reaches for her Sangria, taking a few more sips than a normal woman of her stature needed. Once the glass was emptied, all of the threats were taken into stock, not filed away but with his jabs? Attempted to be imagined with a clear frown upon her face. She has never heard of these tactics. Not even the god of War had taught her such. This has her head tilting just a touch and her frown deepening even more as her fingers lightly stroke upon her chin.
Tibetan Death Touch. Indian Burn. Willie, whoms tactic is wet and deadly. Her mother has been hiding things from her. She must arrange for a trip home soon to correct this.
As the subject drops down to something more her speed, she finally reaches for the last piece of squared cheese upon her plate, popping it into her mouth to chew. "That should not be a hard feat to accomplish." Diana admits. "You are not a horrible looking man. And despite your proclivities, you smell oddly refreshing. I do not see a bone of greed in you, you are not a horrible person. And as I am sure to have mention before, this world would be worthless without your presence in it." Her shoulder shrugs as she fires off compliments, taking her time now to look out into the street.
"If the woman could stand your gait, after all."
Frowning, he comes up full stop as he turns to glower at her from one side of his face. "The hell is wrong with my gait?" He reaches over and this time he rather pointedly snares /her/ Sangria and takes a sip from it, as if defying not just her words but her rights to booze after all.
He looks aside and crinkles his nose as he watches a group of tourists wander on by, then he looks back towards her. "But it's a kindness for you to say that without me and all that." Clint does sort of pause a moment and looks back at her, as if trying to gauge if she's serious about that or not. Since really, that is a pretty darn nice compliment.
Diana has partially disconnected.
"You walk like a mongrel. As if you live in a perpetual state of itchiness." She tried, tried her best not to smile, even as she looks away from him, but she couldn't help but to crack a grin as wide which soon becomes even wider as he snares her drink. "H-hey!" She shrieks out, her hand reaching yet withdrawing to smack against her lips. The sip was taken, there was no sense in her even attempting to stop him, for she lost herself with that first, childish shriek.
Though, as all calms, she settles back into her previous position, staring out towards the street with a slightly clenched jaw, clenched only to keep the smile at bay until he speaks yet again, her head tilting this time to regard him. She was serious about the compliment after all.. "If all honesty were a kindness. We'd aim to do better." Her shoulder lightly shrugs then, and she smiles.
"What would you herd?"
"Just enough to give me some breakfast now and again." Clint offers her with a wry smile, smacking his lips a bit as if to remind her of his ill-gotten wine. He looks aside and follows her gaze and letting it linger on a particular touristy couple both wearing matching Yankees caps. He chuckles slightly and then takes a deep breath.
"Though really I was thinking a few horses, maybe some token crops." But then he rubs at the stubble on his chin thoughtfully, looking back at her. "Then again who knows?" He shifts in his chair slightly and accidentally brushes her foot with his, stopping for a moment to glance downwards, but then back towards her. "Maybe I'll totally lose it. Go whole hog inta farmin'." He pushes a hand through his hair, "How does it sound, Hawkeye's Fine Foods?"
Reminders aside, the wine was forgotten in favor of the glass of water, one which was filled to the brim due to the melted ice within, which immediately wet her fingers with the condensation that formed upon the surface of the glass. Her fingers pinch the glass delicately, drawing it around with a touch of a spill, and a lean forward to carefully sip as eyes dart left and right to ensure that no one had seen her small accident.
"Horses are noble.." She comments, her nose wrinkling almost immediately at the prospect of slaughtering animals to feast upon. It was then that her head shakes, and the water soon downed to fill the void of where the Sangria should have been. "I wouldn't touch the stuff." It wasn't snappy, but it was quick with a wink of her eye. "Perhaps doing nothing would fit you best."
Rolling his eyes for a moment, Clint looks away. He then does agree with her, however, his smile a rueful thing. "You're probably right, but still. I can't really see myself gettin' old." There's a pause as his brow furrows slightly, then he looks back at her. "Then again, who does?"
He finishes his last bit of bread and then looks across the table towards her. "Alright, we should get you back to the embassy or whatever you got goin' now before you're missed, Princess."