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SHIELD is a top class 1960's HQ with all the amenities one would expect from a first-class agency, located in the country which regularly calls itself 'the leader in the free world'.
Or so I'd imagine.
Honestly, Clint's clearance grants him a lot of access as a senior agent, but damn if his most regular haunts at work aren't the cafeteria and medical. At least, those are the places he makes a point of showing up to without being on the sly or ghosting around. The path between the two regularly getting janitorial calls for bio cleanup thanks to Barton insisting on getting a bagel before heading down to medical, dripping blood the whole way.
Which, honestly, is what good ol' Clint is up to right now. A busted lip and a cut across his jaw are the visible signs of 'something' happening earlier on in his evening, dressed down in his loose jeans and comfortable looking tee shirt, he definitely looks like he's just stumbled out of a subway station somewhere. It's not as serious as some of his excursions.
But DAMN is he craving an egg salad sandwich.
Cafeteria. Then Medical.
Strolling around the highly classified HQ as if it were his own living room.
Thea is heading to medical, because it's time to check in and check on some things like supplies and well.. she needs to be here more to be here more. To be seen, to be useful. Blonde hair is pulled back from her face with simple silver combs that are older than she is, and probably are worth more than the blonde has ever given thought to. But they match her silver and sapphire earrings, that match the deep blue sweater and slacks she's wearing with sensible black boots. It's a serious, but not stuffy sort of look, and she's given that more thought than usually is alloted to wardrobe choices. The outfit and accessories, the clear lip gloss, the minimal makeup, it's all more calculated than usual.
But look! It seems like her presence is going to be useful after all, hot dog! She won't hesitate to step in front the man in the jeans and tee-shirt, the sort of man her mother would be horrified to see her 'conversate' with. "You. Medical, now. You're leaving blood all over, and it's just not safe for the workspace, hmm? Not to mention some of these delicate ladies may faint at the sight of a bleeding ruffian." There's a smile, a teasing tone to the words as no lady in SHIELD has seemed delicate to Thea. She also knows that using humor and honey will catch more injured men than the old head nurse tone. That's deeper in the list of plays.
That kind of forethought that comes to people who know how to look really good and really put together has never been a thing in Barton's life. And it shows. All the skills the guy has, and he still looks like a vagrant most of the time, impossibly comfortable in his jeans and relaxed shirts which hang on his broad shoulders and drape on him like the world's most comfortable blanket. But damn if he doesn't appreciate the effort when he sees it.
Let's be honest. Who /doesn't/ appreciate it?
Oohhhh eggsalad. Already there are little eggs in his brain doing the can-can in excitement, but if anything is bound to deter him from the promise of high-caloric eggy goodness, it's a pretty face.
The blond fellow towers over Thea as the sensibly-shod bombshell strides right up to him and in an instant, it's what they'll refer to in forty years as a 'slow-mo' moment. Somehow there are fans involved, and the path Thea strolls is more like a runway bisect on all sides by complimentary lights rather than the office shit they have going on here.
Slowly, a single eyebrow perks up above the other and Clint turns on the slow smile that Thea's seen a hundred times before. Here comes the line. Barton inhales a breath, ignores the taste of pennies in his mouth, lips part and—
Wait.
*'Am I getting yelled at?'*
The wind pretty quickly taken out of his sails, there's a visible hesitation and confusion as the archer points a finger in the opposite direction from Medical. "But…eggsalad."
Charming.
Oh, oh! If only she knew that she was having her 'Dream Weaver' moment..only 10 years before the song came out (and 30 for the movie), she'd be a wonderful mix of amused, complimented, and mortified. After all, what if she'd had something on her sweater, or worse.. a loose thread! She's never been in slo-mo before! She'd be totally sure her hair looks fabulous, though. She's friggin' shampoo commercial worthy, you better believe it.
Ahh yes. THE Smile. The one every good looking man has in his arsenal, that he is always so sure will woo and win the woman of the day. Thea has seen it more than a hundred times before, in her previous life. All the private school boys, the rich trust funders, the men at charity events she's had to dance with. Hell, Warren Worthington has one, and she knows him, too. Good looking blond guys are not a rarity for her. But the ones bleeding and talking about egg salad are a lot more rare.
There's a bigger smile, a gentle hand to the side of his chest near his shoulder to start turning him. Iron will wrapped up in velvety trappings. "Egg salad will be there in a couple minutes, and will taste a lot better without the blood taste in your mouth, honey. I can fix you right up and get you to food in record time." She's going to be insistent, it seems. "And if they are out of egg salad, I will personally take you out for some of the best egg salad in the city. I promise."
I mean, on one hand, the touch barrier was broken, but on the other, Clint was being lead away from his chicken-ovum deliciousness. That charmer of a smile falls away swiftly into one more akin to a lost boy as his broad arm reaches backward while he's drawn toward the lair of poking needles and gauze. He stops, to his credit, before a petulant whine squeaks up out of his throat and instead there's a gaping work around of wordlessness.
Thea might look the part of the butterfly, but she is all spider.
Clint finds his feet shuffling in the direction she bids, despite his best intentions.
*'D'aw, she called me honey.'*
Well. Better make the best out of a bad situation. The arm that reached backward in longing for his sandwich pulls back instead and tries for the good ol' shoulder reach, trying to brace an arm around Thea's shoulder. Amused now that he has a couple more wits around him, Clint relaxes with a low chuckle and canny look sidelong to Thea, "See, now I'm getting confused. You got all the tell-tale signs of a nurse—one of those sly, sugary ones that tell ya to count to three, but stick you after two so it's not as bad. Problem is that you are /way/ too damn pretty to be swabbing people's throats and stitching up knife wounds all day." A little crude, a lot complimentary, the bleeding agent smiles and reaches to try to take one of Thea's hands with the intent of examining her fingernails. And an excuse to touch her palm and fingers.
There will be chicken ovums later, even if Thea has to take him out to the deli in Hell's Kitchen and purchase them for him herself. The lost little boy look actually works a little better, as she grins up at him. She will lead him down that primrose path to the medical area, even as his lip starts to feel warm and tingle. She will let him brace and lean all he likes, if it gets him where she has every intention of him to go. The easier he makes it for her, she will offer the same in kind. She won't even complain about him reaching around her while he's bleeding. See what a good sport she is?
The hand is soft, the fingernails shiny and clean with that clear coat of polish that enhances the effect (And no, no ring). "Well, that's because I am a nurse, probably. And I know how to deal with someone who gets anxious about being stuck with a needle. My mother may agree with you on the too pretty, even." Then there's a lift of brown eyes, and Clint will see no mercy. "However, being blessed with a pretty face does nothing to decrease the intelligence behind it, or reduce my not inconsiderable skills." The flash of the smile is scalpel sharp, there and gone before one can feel the cut. "And since you're an agent with the sort of clearance to wander around bleeding, I have no doubt at all you know that, considering the women who roam the halls."
She will nudge him through the door just shy of a shove, reaching for a cotton pad and some alcohol. His lip is still tender, but there's no even need for a scab anymore, that tender flesh brought back together. Now she'll work on the jaw, and he'll feel that warm tingling again. "But I also don't tend to swab throats, as I work in the emergency department at my..regular job." There's a smirk there. "But I am excellent with my stitching skills, where they are required."
No ring. Beautiful.
Clint smiles and barely seems to notice the warming feeling that spreads through his lips, rubbing the pad of one roughened thumb over the tops of Thea's fingers just below her manicured cuticles. "Well, depending on how close you are with your mother, I'm either really excited to agree with her, or I'm real sorry about that. Look at those nails. Those are the nails of a lady who knows how to look good." Unafraid to look the unfamiliar woman straight in the eye, his eyes like staring up at the sky just before it starts to storm. "It's in those little details that a classy woman shows pride."
In an instant, that smile may just as well slice between the molecules, like a scalpel made of obsidian and painted in clear lip gloss. Clint actually winces, sucking in a breath between his teeth, though his eyes seem to dance with humor. "Oh, /man/. That stung. Did you get clearance to carry that weapon around with you on the floor?" The archer chuckles mellowly as he's just shy of being shoved through the door into medical.
"Is that SHIELD issue? Or just one of your not inconsiderable skills?" Releasing Thea's hand and relaxing the arm around her shoulders, Clint knows the routine well enough and doesn't seem to have any anxiety about being in a sterile environment. This may as well be his second home with the frequency he tends to visit. That cocky amble carries him to a seat, dropping down with a graceless ease. "Well, you've got to be good at stitching them up after you cut them open a little, huh? Hypocritic oath and all that." He fumbles the oath's name and doesn't seem the least bit aware.
A prod of his tongue against where he knew that split was. Clint doesn't taste the raw, metallic split and his brows twitch together faintly. Confused.
"I love my mother, but we are not exactly close. She doesn't understand why I want to work, let alone in a job such as I have chosen, full of blood and bone and pain. If she thought I was doing it to lure a hot doctor, she might be a little more forgiving." She glances at her nails, her left brow lazily lifting in rounded arch. "Those are the nails of a nurse who constantly washes her hands and isn't allowed colored polish, sweetheart."
She'll reach up and pat his cheek opposite from the injury to his jaw. "Oh, honey. That's the bluntest one in my collection. I've had that one long before SHIELD ever showed up in my world. Pretty men like you occasionally need a little jab, but nothing too threatening. You have not yet begun to graze the surface of my skills, I assure you." Eyes have turned all business as her fingers slide under his chin, lifting and turning his head to get a better glimpse of what was the cut along his jaw. But oddly that alcohol doesn't sting where he would know he'd been hit, when she's washing the blood from his skin, stubble, and the like. It's almost like magic! "Nurses don't take the Hippocratic Oath, that's strictly doctor only." Her voice sounds vaguely distracted, as if she's focused elsewhere, which she is. She's looking him over with something other than her eyes, which look vaguely unfocused, but it would be hard to be sure.
She will snap back at his tongue prodding his lip, the twitch of his brows, knowing that expression. "And the dawning begins."
For all the sly talk that comes from Clint, he listens without interruption while Thea explains her relationship with her mother and becoming a nurse. Her 'why', some might say. His attention keenly settled on her, smiling coolly when she takes another look at her nails and neatly balls up his compliment and tosses it into the trashbin like a used up cotton swab.
Chortling behind closed lips, Clint is a most compliant patient, at least. Arms folded loose in his lap, the spy's head turns, offering the cut he knows he has to have, though he is indeed still curiously poking at his lip, trying to figure out what happened there. Trying to examine it on the sly while the cool alcohol swab wipes away the dirt, dust, clotting blood and other detritus sticking to his wound. He's not as clean-shaven as he perhaps /should/ be, so you're damned right it takes some scrubbing to get clean with the short blond stubble across his jaw.
Stormy eyes squint, speculatively, before he throws out a smartass remark. "Is it normal to feel aroused and afraid when you say it like that?" Then corrects himself with an emphatic blink. "Sorry—I meant 'intrigued'. Intrigued and afraid."
The gentle correction to the /hippocratic/ oath, Clint mumbles lowly, "They don't? Huh. Well, that explains a couple of the other nurses I know…" Taking it for what it is, though he seems to sense she's focusing on something else and at least has the manners to not outright try to make her life more difficult than it needs to me. When you're in here as often as he is, well, you can't afford to piss the medstaff off.
The cut on his jaw was worse than the one on his lip, but nothing horror-movie serious. He might need a stitch or two to help because of the location, but he'd heal all right with enough time. This isn't the only one he's had, either. Getting in close enough, this idiot has a number of pale lines from various injuries of varying degrees in healing, and his nose has been reset at /least/ twice.
"Dawning?" He sniffs. Huh. That smells like alcohol. Has he finally done enough damage where it doesn't sting? Well, that's kind of exciting in a terrible way.
He'll have to work harder or be more original if he wants his compliments to land anywhere other than the trashbin. Thea is aware of being attractive, by men both in and outside of her chosen profession. For a woman to be taken seriously and get to where she wants to be, that requires a certain… loss of social graces her mother bemoans. She'll notice that poking at his lip continuing, and that expression shades amused.
Now see that, the smartass? The correction, all of it so overdone? That makes her laugh, even as she's reaching for another cotton pad to dampen. "I think I like the idea that you're both aroused and afraid of me, all at once." That's said a little closer to his ear than perhaps needs be, but she's just making sure he's good and cleaned up, right? "No, most nurses take the Nightengale Oath. I did not, by choice. Mainly because the idea of promising to follow a physician's orders when some of them aren't as good at healing as I am seemed downright stupid."
"Maybe it's not dawning. Maybe you're not as swift on the uptake as I hoped." She'll lean back, scrubbing a little blood off his chin. "And that would be a pity, with as much fun as it's been so far." Brown eyes glance up to his, full of that mischievious amusement. She'll take his hand, and lift it to his jaw, where the cut had been, and where beneath the healed skin there's still some aggravated tissues healing. "You keep getting yourself beat up, honey, and you'll want to know my name to ask for me."
Overblown ridiculousness is Clint's personal brand, so when it gathers a laugh out of Thea as opposed to grumpy snark, he counts that as a win. A reactive smile curling on the side of his mouth opposide the cut she's currently working on. "Lucky for me," Clint murmurs in support of fear-rousal.
"Nightengale Oath? What's that? Some sort of cutesy chant about three steps up from the girlscouts they try to pass off as some equivalent?" A wry twitch of his eyebrow, his tone dryer than the sahara. "Nah, don't put your skills to the discretion of some egomaniac."
Another short chuckle hums behind closed lips, Clint swiveling his gaze to the very near young woman with continuous reliability. "Ou-uch! I'm a bio-hazard, boring, /and/ stupid, eh? Well, I mean, I'd correct you if you were wrong, but I'll have to say you seem to have a good handle on what you see." Utterly amused over the back and forth. "You know, if we keep sparring like this, I'm going to end up in Medical. There's this blond nurse there? Mm." His chin released, Clint's mouth falls open with overdone, feigned surprise 'dawning' in his eyes, overplaying the 'stupid' mark. "Oh /wait/."
The sarcastic comment melts away with a fluid smile and another curious lick at the inside of his lip. "I don't know, I'm sort of liking this mysterious act you have going on right now. Can I just ask for 'the less mean one' you think? So what's the prognosis? You've got this crazy light touch. I mean, you might hear this all the time, but do you make every man twitterpated to the point they don't even /feel/ the alcohol swab?"
It is a win, for both of them. All too often her male…patients either are wary of the pretty woman, or are too heavy on the flirting to really make it fun for her. This is a nice change of pace, and she'll take it, even as she runs her non-visual scan over him again, though it will certainly seem like she's looking him over.
"Basically. Talking about how I will be good and pure and blah blah blah." There's a wave of her hand to dismiss it. "I am not the sort of woman who will submit to a doctor's orders if they're stupid, and I have no interest in promising to live my life in purity, and avoid all things deleterious and mischievious. Doctor's don't have to promise that. In fact, their oath even talks about enjoying life and art. So.. " There may be some problems with sexism, there.
"Now now, I never called you stupid. I just said you may not be as smart as I first hoped." There's a gleam in those eyes as she laughs at his overdone theatrics. "You, sir, missed a calling on the stage."
Her head tilts, looking at him. "Apparently only so twitterpated that he doesn't realize alcohol only stings when the skin is still broken, honey." There's a hand up to pat the top of his head. "You're all done. At least from your most recent injuries. I didn't mess with the ones you've gotten that are still in the later stages of healing. And you can just ask for Thea. They may even call me if I'm not here."
That scan pulls up an array to flood Thea's senses and try to sort out. This guy is either really bad at his job, or really good at it, and quite honestly it's sort of hard to tell. The series of old injuries that come up on her scan is overwhelming and include a missing spleen, numerous knitted bones from old breaks, and some liver and lung scarring which denotes a social smoker and drinker. The most disturbing thing, however, is probably the fact that he is functionally nearly entirely deaf due to damage, and he probably deals with a good amount of tinnitus. Carrying on a conversation like nothing, but that prolonged, attentive eye contact? More than just flirtation.
More current injuries? The cuts she's already helped along, two cracked ribs that much ache like a motherfucker, and a headache, but no concussion. Otherwise, this guy is human, 110%, but his body is fine-tuned like a machine that he beats the shit out of one second, then babies and oils and exercises obsessively. Those extremes being the epitome of Clint Barton.
And here he is, smiling like a dry-humored imp, flirting shamelessly in this verbal sparring session. Especially when Thea rejects the ideals of purity? My, my, my, dear woman, you have my attention! Clint's eyes squint faintly with a smile; the stormy gray in his eyes churning among the blue, amused. "Good and pure and blah-blah-blah. Well, I am definitely in favor of forgetting all of that noise. Well, mostly." He shrugs a shoulder and rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "The good and pure ones never have any fun. Believe me. I know a few of them. They /never/ have beer money. Why would /anyone/ want to avoid mischief?"
Sizing one another up, he definitely has a disadvantage here, but seems to be enjoying himself anyway. Thea strikes a nerve and Clint flashes an enigmatic grin at her in the face of saying he missed a calling on the stage. "Did I, though? Really? What greater stage is there than this international espionage and security gig? Really, I could argue that this is the /greatest gig/ I could hope for."
Confusion hits him again when he's given a pat to the head and told that he doesn't have any broken skin. "Okay, I might have hit my head back there, but I know that—" Clint tilts his head, pulling broken, mirrored sunglasses out of his back pocket to take a look at his jaw and lip in the reflection. And stops mid-sentence. Staring.
"Huh."
Well look at that.
The archer takes a moment of personal reflection on if he's losing his mind or not. Eh. Probably not?
The corners of his mouth pull down briefly in a non-frown. "Well." Processing just how to respond to those 'skills' she alluded to before, Clint drops the glasses and lifts his attention back to the blond bombshell, a new understanding in his gaze.
One eyebrow arches upward. "You know I feel cheated, Thea. I didn't even get to ask you to kiss it and make it better."
There's another glance, here and there, mostly those ribs and his ears. Sadly, while the ribs could possibly be helped, the hearing may be too old injury-wise for the biokinetic to do antyhing about. There's something sad in her expression that will make no sense to Clint, all told. "I also never have beer money." She hates to break your heart! "That's because I never drink beer, and keep the good liquor at my place." There's a grin of pure mischief and a wink with that one. "No one I want to know wants to completely avoid it."
"As someone who toils away here in the medical unit, hoping to get training and earn a shot playing with you big kids, I guess I can't answer as to the greater stage." She moves to put the alcohol away, making sure everything is tidy and well ordered as can be.
"You did hit your head, though you're not concussed, thank heavens. I can help the ribs if you want, before you go, but that would probably be quickest if I actually touch you." She's asking, rather than just doing. Casual touch is one thing, this is going to be a smidge more intimate. "But I will kiss it and make it better." She'll lean in and kiss his forehead a long moment, while giving his headache some remedy-ing. See? It is magic! "So, who else knows about your hearing? Are you actually lip reading, or just following along, or what?"
While she's tidying up around the place, Clint has time to quietly ruminate over what the hell is going on and quietly panic to himself over how much she was able to pick up on and meddle with. The ridiculous paranoia that every member of SHIELD who has seen some shit gets when things aren't in their control. Thankfully, it's all internal dialogue.
Still, she wins a cursory smile when she takes pity upon him and grants a lingering kiss against his forehead. Clint's chin dips, pressing his brow against those smooth lips and paying particular attention this time at the throbbing slowly soaks out of his skull.
Huh.
Lifting his head slowly when she lifts away, Clint smiles coyly. "Like magic." Nice and level while he lingers well within her personal space. The mention of his hearing makes that smartass smile finally flutter, churning as it turns just a little on the bitter side. Clint tries to quickly outcast the negative expression with a quick lick to the formerly split spot on his lip, exhaling a breathly laugh. Insecurity screams for a split second before being covered up with a thick layer of deflection.
"A couple folks have caught on, but nobody worth mentioning." Fessing up to it with a roll of his shoulders, straightening up. "And I would prefer to keep it that way. I don't need anyone making consessions for me. A little lip reading, a little feeling it out, and what hearing I got left. The rest of it is just, heh, /acting/."
Jutting his chin back up at Thea. "What about you? Alien? Mutant? God? What's the deal?"
Poor Clint. Don't you know panic affects your vitals? Might as well write in neon for a girl like Thea. But she won't mention it, or even give you a curious glance over it, just to protect that macho manliness thing.
"Alas, it's not magic. I wish it were, because then I could just flitter around and fix everyone." Which hints she can't, that maybe healing isn't as easy as she makes it seem. Her hand will try to catch his chin, looking him in the eyes. "I can maybe help some of the most current stuff. Lower the ringing in your ears, but I.. I don't think I can do anything to really give you any sort of renewed level of hearing." Her voice is.. deeper, somber with that. Sad, even. "I have no intention to rat you out. Not my place, if you're getting along all right." Of course, if it starts to impact other things, she'd have to, but she has hope that never happens.
"Oooh, I like that goddess idea." There's a shift from the sad, the matter of fact, back to the lightly flirtacious. "You're not going to turn away from me helping your ribs if I tell you I'm a mutant, are you?"
The hint taken that she can't just fix everything is brought to the surface with the dim acknowledgement of, "Like the ears." Right. Of course. no, that would be too easy. The disappointment is audible, but he doesn't seem to blame Thea for that. That would be unfair. But his distancing language 'the ears' rather than 'my hearing' says it's an old and bitter injury and explains every single reason that he went on defensive when she dug that skeleton up.
What the hell has he been doing to hide something like that from SHIELD?!
Maybe he's just not that high up on the radar.
That snag of his chin is allowed, barely ticking his paranoia meter. Besides, why the hell would he NOT let a gorgeous lady touch him? Though, there is the unfortunate added effect now that whenever he glances down at her lips, there's the knowledge of necessity and not just the visual suggestion of 'hey, bring those down here, sugar'. He doesn't need to hear her tone to tell what's going on. He's watching for signs of pity so he knows precisely when to bail.
A wise ass little smile curling casually across Clint's newly healed lips. "If you could turn the ringer down, I'd happily set up an altar to you and start scheduling regular prayer services." His left eyebrow just barely twitches upward in suggestion.
Without flinching, Clint rejoinders, "You're not going to punch me in the side if I tell you that I'm still aroused and afraid, are you?"
Thea does flinch, paling just a touch. "Like the ears. I'm sorry. I'm just not that good." There's a glance away from him, up at the lights for no good reason. Well, other than the obvious reason that this smartassed, too casual and yet overacting archer has poked beneath the exterior and it hurts. "Is it just ringing, or do you get clicking too?"
He hides it, just like she hides her mutant status from her 'real' job. Because being honest about it could mean losing it, and she gets the feeling he doesn't like to lose anything. It can be easy to hide things, if you know how. But there's no pity in the blonde's face as she looks back down into his. She doesn't feel sorry for him, if anything, it's worse: Admiration. Because hiding something like this has to be harder than hiding being able to heal a little here and there when no one is paying any mind.
Those eyes will hold his even as she.. she's still in the here and now (hear and now), but it's like she's distant, all at once. That ringing will lighten, even as her hand releases his chin to feel up along where his jaw meets the rest of his skull. There's just a faint feeling of warmth there, that spreads to his ears, a tingling that may almost sound like a buzzing and may get unpleasant.
"Well, if I was going to punch you, now would be the time, before I fix your ribs. Hurt more." And just like that, she's back again, peeling up his shirt to lay a hand over where those ribs hurt worst. Clint may or may not notice, under the god awful lighting, that she's a couple good, solid shades paler, and it's only getting worse are that tingling, heated buzz intensifies around his ribs.
Clint shrugs emphatically with a twist of his lips, eyes sliding shut while Thea apologizes for not being able to just fix the bullshit hand that he's been dealt. Yeah, it sucks, but he handles it with grace. "Oh no. You can /only/ save me another couple scars, cure my headache and my aching side? I guess that means I'm cutting confessional out of the deal, and services down to every other day. Tell me, how do you feel about communion? Because I'm thinking about what we could use to serve as your body." A beat of pause while Barton lays it on far thicker than necessary. "Symbolically, of course."
The serious question is given another mild shake of his head, unknowing. "It's all white noise at this point. Um. Mostly the ringing…" Clint drifts off, feeling warmth soak along his jaw and into his ears. He shifts his jaw and tilts his head very slightly, as if trying to pop his ears. "Well…that's…fun." Weeeeeeird! But he holds it together rather well. Discomfort is something he's used to, even if this is a different angle on it.
Helpfully, Clint grunts a bit as his shirt is pulled upward, lifting one arm slightly away from his torso so Thea can get in there. Thank goodness he prefers loose shirts. Inhaling a smooth, calming breath, the archer stares back at Thea, watching her expression attentively. His brows twitch together, murmuring low, just between them, "You doing all right? You're looking a little, you know, peaked." The buzzing transfers to his ribs. Worriedly, Clint slips a hand under his shirt to try to take Thea's wrist and pull her away from his side. "Hey. You can't hurt yourself worrying about my dumb ass, all right?"
"Only." Thea agrees, her lips pressed into a line. "Good, I never liked confessionals anyhow. Honey, I'm Greek. Mother's side, anyhow. Now they know how to worship the gods. Food, libation, the occasional orgy.." There's a hint of a smile there, as she just gives it back to him. Yes, discomfort, but it could be worse! Right? …right?
There's a clench of her jaw, a press of those pretty nails lightly against his side. "I'm not hurting myself, leggo. I'm almost done." Those eyes will lift to his again, a faint shadow beneath them that wasn't there before. That's what she gets for not wearing a full face of makeup. Her mother would be horrified. "I'll be fine. Your ribs would have broken if you got your dumb ass in another fight." She'll retreat then, avoiding all touch whatsoever. "Maybe I just need an egg salad sandwich."
Clint purses his lips together into a flat, thin line, but after a moment of debate, he lets Thea's wrist go, trying to not think to hard about the feeling of her fingernails skating over his skin. She's a grown ass woman. Oath free and everything. Inhaling deeply, Clint steels himself and sits still so she can do what she needs to. "Luckily, I met this woman today who says she knows a great place for egg salad. I'm /told/ at least." Those stormy eyes lift away, hovering somewhere over Thea's left shoulder, staring at the wall distantly. He whispers, "Man…" Shaking his head with that distant lead up. "…I went to the /wrong/ churches growing up."
It is a smart man who does not interfere with a grown ass woman. Especially not one who could mess him up from the inside out, which a man as clever as Clint might put together. But he lets her do her thing, and then makes her laugh afterwards. "Well, great egg salad. Great pastrami. Okay, I've yet to have a bad thing out of this deli." There's a hint of a chuckle, her hand skimming over her hair. "Most people did. I'm just lucky I spent a lot of summers with my grandparents in Greece." There's a grin. "Hungry, honey? I'll spot you that sandwich now, since I need one for myself.. AND it's on my way home." Bonus!
Clint waits for the signal like a good little patient, his smile slowly creeping across his mouth once again. Angular and sly. "Like I ever went to church," he chortles under his breath, flicking his attention back to Thea after the moment of distant thought. "Really, Thea. It's like you don't know me at all." Teasing, Clint lays it on thick, as he is wont to do, holding out one of his hands in offering while those stormy eyes churn with smart alec amusement. "Clint Barton. And I'm /starving/."