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"J.P.," Clint pipes up. "Don't suppose that stands for 'Jean-Pierre' with that accent of yours?"
"Is jes' J.P. to you." There was a shrug as he mused out loud shaking his head, "a moins que vous ne m'achetiez d'abord un homard? "
"Dois-je l'acheter?" Clint casually asks into the mouth of his beer, his eyes flicking back and forth between the two mutants while they talk and JP toasts with himself since Clint isn't about to lie about what he is and isn't.
JP actually did a spit-take back into his glass rather than on Sam's newly cleaned (and rump scrubbed) counter top. "Merde." He was honestly too busy laughing to be angry.
There was an agreement struck. Is J.P. For Jean-Pierre? Not unless you get me a lobster first. Aaaah but do I have to buy the lobster? That was the question that came back. and Jean-Pierre Marius Bonaventure was very little but was absolutely a man of adventure and a man of his word. So when the lobster showed up in a foam cooler snapping and…well snarling as much as any water bug made noise? Frankly he was duly impressed.
The look he gave Lint conveyed as much as 'oh shit you ACTUALLY did it'. which told him everything he needed to know about the man in one action: He had a sense of humor, a sense of adventure, and was absolutely canny enough to follow up on other people's bullshit. That? That was someone worth making a gumbo for among other things, but that was a person to know.
He admitted, "I'm between places wit'a kitchen, mon ami. You got one ya know I make you one hell of a dinner outta this lil bastard."
Clint loves a good challenge. He's one of those guys with a goadability ingrained into the very core of his being. Not with important things, but when it comes to the shit that he does with his life to keep himself from getting bored-so basically every other waking moment aside from when he was at work-he was always looking for something to keep his attention. Something interesting. Something that would keep away the fog of boredom and pose a challenge. That's the problem with highly skilled individuals, isn't it? They become problem children if they're not given constructive things to do with their energy.
Luckily, Clint did things like steal lobsters from high class restaurant tanks, shove them into styrofoam containers and shove them at sassy cajuns. Cocky and as proud of himself as the day is long. All for the right to, what? Call him 'Jean-Pierre'? What the hell did Clint care what name the man went by? It was entirely pointless on the grand scheme of things.
But the look on JP's face? Was /priceless/. That in itself was worth it. Delicious and savory.
Speaking of delicious…
"Between places? That a fancy way of saying yer living out of your car and bumming on trick's couches, pretty boy?" Clint remarks, smartass that he is, though the words have no bite to them as he leads the way outside and winks at Gearhead. "I got a place. You got a car, or are we taking the metro? You wouldn't imagine the looks that I got getting down here."
JP plodded along with that sauntering gait carrying the cooler. The question was point blunt. That was fine though. Fearlessness was a well respected trait to him and he made no misgivings about who he was and appreciated, it seemed, when people did the same. Cleverness, though, was a virtue. His head tilted, "Somethin' like that. Whatever amuses me and gets me by." he nodded for Clint to follow adding, "Meet some interestin' people though."
It certainly didn't make up for the fact that it was winter in New York and New York could be hostile. Judging by the way he took a run at Sammy though who was easy pound and a half to his pound in mass? Well he wouldn't be chewed up by the city anytime soon. There was parking not far and he assured, "I got a car. Finally fixed it up. Gotta make time to find the fuckface what wrecked her and park on em for a while and explain yous jes' don' go aroun' hittin no lady like that." Yes, cars, for whatever reason, were always female, and with greasers and motor heads, possibly held in higher regard than their own mothers.
But there it was, a gleaming black 1964 Pontiac GTO, chrome finish red leather interior, am radio and red wall tires. And it was driving…towards them? And it pulled up to a stop and popped the doors open for them. That was going to be a new must-have feature.
"Hey, I can hear that," Clint doesn't seem at all judgmental behind that initial jab to see how JP would react. "I have an apartment-I'm pretty sure I still have an apartment." He squints, tilting his head to one side, then nods again. "But what's the fun in sticking to the same place too long?" A relaxed shrug of his shoulder, the question rhetorical.
Arching a brow back at JP. "Someone touched yer car? That's a crime worth beating a man for. You never touch another man's baby. Let me know if you need a posse to corrale the guy, huh?" Because you never, ever touch another man's car. C'mon now. That's a widely known rule.
He doesn't much seem to pay attention to the moving car because, well, it was moving. Clearly it couldn't be JP's car, right? The beautiful piece of mechanical engineering was pulling along side them, slowing down, and rather than a bunch of pissed off men jumping out to beat them, the door that popped open was empty.
Clint turns to look at JP, question marks popping up around his head. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
JP's turn to look pretty fucking smug. As smug as an archer shoving a lobster at a sassy southerner. That car was immaculate. He drawled out in his mother tongue since Clint could pick out the French portions of it just fine, "Jeanne d'Arc" because of course he named it after the legionnaire that was the patron saint of Orleans. Was there any doubt? His eyebrows arched and Clint got a wink with a faint tilt of his head. "I kid you fucking not."
The lobster was secured to sit on the floorboards behind the driver's seat. He got in and waited for Clint to boggle and ogle at it for that brief moment. The doors closed, locked and it was already warm from running at least. That was a fucking wonder. "She follow' me home. Save my ass more than once and yes, Clint, I will absolutely be callin you when I find those fucks. Now, where I tell her to go?" Once he had bearings the gear shift and clutch acted on their own accord, but JP's hand fell back to the wheel and worked out driving like a normal person after. His tongue rand across his lower lip thoughtfully with a squint, "Machines and I understan' one another. We've come to an agreement. Trus' me is useful. Just… not for camping."
"Joan of Arc? Does she hear voices?" Clint has to ask once he gets over the shock of a car driving up to them all on its own. A smart alec smile curved across his expression, the archer shakes his head. Damnedest thing, Bonaventure.
Clint does indeed stroll around to the passenger side, sliding his fingers along the sexy curves of the car's hood while he walks, appreciating a fine machine like that and all. The inside was just as gorgeous, and with the underwater sea bug secured between his feet, one of his rough hands pets lightly over the dashboard. "She is a cherry, I'll give you that, man. You know, most men just have a dog, but this is seriously way more convenient. I take it that's your 'thing', huh? Machines an' you get along like that."
"heh she hear my voice jes' fine. She came back, didn' she?" He had a point there. There was a laugh and a lopsided grin, "Didn' I just say we had an agreement?" He shook his head and murmured, "And you the one with the fancy job? Mon dieu." It was all in good nature though. He shrugged a shoulder, "I ask all pretty like and they abide, man. Doors, cars, cuffs, whatever. Hell, everyone in my family got somethin'" He glanced over apparently, one hopes, not seeing to watch the road, "You?"
"You have no idea what kind of job I got, or if I have one at all," Clint points out as he leans back comfortably in the car, mollesting JP's car's door arm rest with one hand. She was a sweet, sweet ride. While he wasn't a motor head, Clint and his engineering interests lead him to appreciate these finer things in life. Plus, he could drive just about anything with an engine like a bat out of hell.
"Cuffs and doors? So how the hell does that work? It just need moving parts and you can sweet talk it out of its pants?" Clint asks, his attention always at least sidelong fixed on JP. "I mean, I'd just about believe it."
Drumming his fingers on the armrest lightly, Clint shakes his head. "I don't got a 'thing'." Says the guy who convinced the bouncer at 8 ball that he was a mutant with his coin trick.
The Cajun shrugged crossing the halfway mark, "Well I know if you ain't not you was military some point past. Dress too nice, you got a place. Yous' either government, police, security, freelance." He considered and simply said, "You don look Italian enough to be a hitman." He was observant enough. Apparently that secure hold and take down in that bar fight was not the first time he'd been detained and could tell the trained from the untrained. The question about his skills and the curiosity behind it made em laugh, "I dunno, how many movin parts you got to find out?" He was brazen and shameless with the best of them. The car turned and he hunted parking in the alley. "You got a thing. No one makes that shot with a nickle arbitrary, mon ami."
"I don't think anyone has ever complimented me on the way I dress," Clint laughs and shrugs it off, though honestly, why would they? Clint's personal style is 'this is what I was wearing last night' for the most part unless he's in uniform. Tee shirt and jeans type of guy, comfort and function over form. If you see him in a tie, well, it'll be more like he raided a certain exorcist's closet in the way of marvelously unpressed. "I'm like…Irish and English or something. I don't know. I'm Midwestern. So no, definitely not Italian. The mob, heh…yeah I can't see the mob taking to me." He grins crookedly with an enigmatic quirk to his mouth, shrugging a shoulder and not answering straight just which crew he runs with.
The mention of moving parts makes him chuckle low, appreciating the joke, a quick flash of a wink back at JP. "Plenty if you're up for it."
"Oh there was nothing arbitrary about that shot, man," agreeing with a cocky smile back. "My thing isn't a thing like your thing, though."
JP shrugged, "No one's thing like anyone else's, but don' mean it still ain' a thing. Even if you don' think it's a thing. There's stupid smart people who don' realize that's a thing. Sometimes you dunno. But," He glanced to Clint lookin him over and laughed in regards to the banter about talking things out of their pants with moving parts, "You' all-terrain. I'd drive the hell outta that." he followed directions to the black and stopped. Well we'll find out of you still got a place and if not? Eh not the first time I break into use a kitchen."
Clint has a cocky smile written across his face as he leans back in the passenger seat. "Suppose it depends what you call a 'thing'. Mine's all practice, none of it came natural." Sliding that look JP's way, he winks. "I'm just your boring, baseline shmuck with too much time on his hands."
An eyebrow perks upwards at JP, eyes flash down his body for a stripping instant before stormy eyes touch back on his. "Play your cards right and I might just give you the keys, Jean-Pierre." Wetting the corner of his mouth, Barton points at a parking space, then up at a building. It's about as middle of the road and nondescript as he can possibly get. Not poor, not wealthy. Not fancy, not run down. It's the vanilla of apartments. "If they've changed the locks on me already, I'm gonna be annoyed."
JP snorted with a wry, smug grin, "Ain't you somethin?" Hands came off the wheel as the car paralleled in one pass. A messed up, but super useful gift in the city. "Don' worry, locks never meant much t'me. They change em? Well… we fuckin take your shit back ooooor have a helluva good time tryin, Mmm?" That easy grin was simply effortless like he saw it as possibly winning a prize. Man, Mutants are just nuts. "Don' worry I think you got over that whole baseline thing a while ago. Still, neat trick. Please tell me you make a killin at bars wit' that." He got out and didn't bother locking the car because he also never bothered putting keys in the ignition. When the doors closes they sort of just did it on their own.
"A little breaking and entering, some light theft, damn, it's like you got my dossier of 'turn ons'," Clint remarks deadpan while he watches the car parallel park itself. "That's gotta come in handy." Getting out of the car as well, there's another appreciate stare at the car. JP's baby. Sliding a hand along the curve of the car's hood, Clint sucks in a breath between his teeth, fingers coming up with a flick. "Nice."
"Don't tell anyone about it, man. I have a very nice sharking gig going on that only works if they don't realize what's going on," Clint chuckles under his breath and looks up at the nearest building. The criss-crossing fire escape down the side given some consideration. "C'mon, we'll take the executive entrance."
Shuffling the lobster back to JP for a minute, Clint runs up to the building, running a couple steps up the wall to grab the dangling ladder by the bottom rung. Pulling himself up the rungs, hand over hand, until reaching the first platform. The ladder unlatched, he lowers it the rest of the way to the ground for JP and climbs back down. "Not exactly the red carpet, but it'll do. Lemme take that for ya." Assuming that the guy will need his actual hands.
JP grinned and looked around, "Yeah, even better when you need the car t'come back, ya know? Man, I could tell you stories bout a guy I slapped with hi-lo forks once for runnin at one of my guys. Whooooo there's surprise." His head shook and said, "I can' get the lobster up." Dark eyes traveled the lines of the building and the path he used, The deadpan comment about turns on's amused him to no end. "Aaaah, we gon' get along jes' fine, mon ami. Get up there. I'll ride th' lobster on up. You can grabbum. Lil bastard's gon' be so confused."
JP waited for Clint to get his happy ass back up the ladder and , laying a hand on it, held the cooler in one hand and willed the ladder to pull up, him attacked, like a grubby Mary Poppins. The cooler was handed to Clint. He was straining with this one. "Fighting to keep tha' ratchet locked. Grab the bug."
Offering to take the sea bug up, Clint smiles and holds his hands up when JP says he's got a way to get the bug up. With a wink, "Gotcha." Clint ambles his happy ass back over and climbs up the lowered ladder, looking down at the smokin' cajun with the cooler. Surprised when the ladder starts moving 'on its own', Clint chuckles under his breath and snares the cooler, watching curiously while the ratchet struggles a little bit. "Got it!" He grabs the ladder rung as well to take the pressure off JP's…psyche? How does that work?
JP snorted, "Top shape? I was the captain of the Paroisse d'Orléans Correctional Crous-Country Track team, mon ami" Very fancy way of saying, the cops taught me well, man. We got this. There was, however, an energy that would not be repressed, eyes up looking for what was next; more. Legs swinging over the railing, though he murmur, "Merci, merci." With a slap to Clint's shoulder. "How high up or we runnin from this roof to the next one over?" As if that were a casual thing he'd not put past the guy that drags a lobster across town.
"You mean you've got a record?" Clint asks, facetiously. "I'm shocked." The archer upnodding to JP as he swings his legs over, turning to look up the building while he tucks the cooler under one arm. "You seemed like such an upstanding young man." His voice soaked through with sarcasm, dripping with it as he tromps over the iron grates to the steep staircases. Shooting JP a raucous grin that could've nearly burst into laughter at any point and seemed to scream 'hell no, I knew you weren't a boring fish'.
"C'mon, Nola. Four floors up," Clint points toward a level above them. A window rather than the safety door on that level. "That one's mine. I think. This building, though I like where your head is at. Roof running's a great one in this city. Shit, should we have picked up other food or something for this thing? I don't know how cooking works.". A lie or not, doesn't matter, Clint manages it seamlessly.
JP preened a little as if proudly being congratulated on a fine accomplishment. He was a pretty little train wreck of wanton adventure wasn't he? The greaser kept a hustle on the stairs, a laugh escaping him when roof running came up. "I ain't actually tried that yet. Should!" Though when the comment about picking up other foods came up he stopped on the stairs, the clang of his boots silent. In a curious tone usually reserved for the phrase 'well isn't it though?' he asked, "Tha' not what the neighbours' fridges is for?" Oh yeah, he just put B&E for things like onions and carrot on the list of things to do. Innocently he blinked casing the building with a once over to figure out who might be home and who wasn't.
"You haven't tried it?!" clint exclaims, the sound of JP hammering feet and excitement infectious as Clint picks up the pace. "JP, you're missing out on life, man. Come with me. I'll show ya some fun ones." Barton equivalent of a gym buddy!
The footsteps behind him stop and Barton looks through the metal at the swarthy fellow below. He barks a short laugh. "Okay. Just not 4D, 3A or 3D. Anyone else is probably fine."
A lopsided grin hung in place. Leaving that bar? Definiately a good choice, even withteh promise of being macked on by the hot Italian guy. Hot guys come and go, but living in the moment only exists right now and only once. Seize that shit and hold on tight!
Okay he had to ask, "Old people? Single moms? They owe you money? What's up?" Fun Boy's brow furrowed and he said, "I ain't up for stealin from kids. I do have a code of… what's those things… Enids?" Ethics.
"I want to say 'ethnics', but that doesn't sound right," Clint comments on the way to his floor, tapping his finger on his window on the way to the outer door to the floor.
"4D has like six kids with an alcoholic old man I've thrown out like three times, 3A's a fixed income war vet and 3D's this protester kid from like Indiana or something, trying to make a difference." Clint looks back at JP. "He'll have less in his fridge than I do. Trust me."
The mechanic rolled his eyed and said as if that was that decision, "Ain' interested in stealin from no kids. But if there's leftovers could bring it by that protester's place Not that I kknow what leftovers look like."
Up, up, up to the 4th floor they went. He waited for Clint to pick a window, pointed at it, and then just set hand on the door frame and with a pop, the latch threw. Okay, super handy. Maybe not dodging bullets, but definitely useful to the clever minded. "Entre vous."
"Leftovers, that's a good one," Clint jokes but doesn't argue the matter. He strides to the security door on his floor, but when JP just pops the lock on his window, there's a crooked smile. "You are one hell of a multitool, man." An intrigued flash of Clint's eyes up and down the guy as he hefts the window open and sets the cooler inside, the lobster scuttling inside. With a gesture. "Beauty before age," letting JP inside first.
Really the apartment may not be his. There are no photos anywhere. There are a couple of armchairs in the living room but they're spaced out so there was probably a couch between them, but its gone. There's a low table where a television should go but there isn't on. A radio. Another table with a pegboard behind it, an array of hand tools hanging off it, and lubricants and tiny screws, springs, plates in little containers all separated out. And a fucking punching bag hanging from the ceiling. It doesn't look like anyone's been home for weeks. Weird living room.
JP's grin was undiminished. The lean bayou rat looked oh-so proud of himself. Talk about a man who was comfortable in his own skin. "Aaaaah, you got no idea, there Hoss." No stranger to a B&E he looked down before letting foot on the floor sitting on the sill half in and hand out surveying the place and boom swinging his head back to Clint eyebrow arched. "Well, it look familiar?" He looked back and squint "Yeaaaaah too many brothers an' sisters. No idea what leftovers look like."
Boots touched down. Elmo wasn't wrong, running off on one's own into strange apartments is a great way to wind up on a milk carton. Then again? No risk no reward. Looking around he grinned, "Well, either a hitman live here, or you got robbed, mon ami." He shrugged, and perhaps stupidly, collected the lobster and plodded over to the kitchen with it.
Clint grunts as he steps in to the apartment, "A little bit of column A, a little bit of column B." He strides toward the empty space between the chairs, hands on his hips while JP heads to the kitchen. "I loved that couch. Really brought the room together." Sucking between his molars, he joins JP in the kitchen.
The kitchen is screaming bachelor pad. Mismatched dishes, there's a fork and a plate in the sink that have been there for a long time. Pans are at a minimum. Spices are mostly just pepper and salt. Cans that never go bad, a few boxes. The fridge is pretty bare. Milk that you shouldn't trust, butter, left over noodle something. Ehhhh.
JP looked around setting the cooler down and frowned. He opened up the cooler and noted, Hmmm you're gonna have to way buddy. Not enough here to make you but a snack." Which didn't stop him from moving the dishes out of the sink and jsut dropped them in the trash. "We'll acquire you new ones." No one said buy. The water was pulled to room tempreature until he dould find, a hA! a huge thing of salt to make the water briney. He looked around for some, well salad tongs worked, to pull the lobster out and put him in the sink. "THeeeere we go."
Looking around there was a dubious look given to Clint, "Eh, that happens." He didn't comment on the bit about a hitman living here and figured , as were most their ilk, himself included, that he was into contractor work and din't really hold that to a standard. "Well, least yous' robbed by folks with good taste. So we get you a new couch." Like it's easy, or like JP had any investment in this!? Goddamn he was a people person. Maybe some just like the thrill of the hunt.
"Not good enough taste," Clint watches JP fill his sink with salt water, leaning one of his shoulders against the frame into the room. "Dated me, after all. At least before sense set in." He clued JP in on the 'some of column B' where a bad break up and ex taking all your good furniture counts as being robbed. The hitman question still stood but he didn't correct it. After all, the last mistaken 'assassin' bit got him laid, so no point in correcting all things.
"You going to help me hunt a new couch down while we're grocery shopping?" Aka robbing his neighbors. The smart-mouthed archer angles a smile while the lobster angrily waves his un-bound claws around as he's lifted up with salad tongs. He can't help but laugh a little. "All you've made so far is salt water, and I gotta admit; its sort of sexy already. Is that normal?"
JP wince in too much understanding there. "Oof, Yeah, I hear ya." He was still monitoring the sink not to fill it up too much, but arched both eyebrows nodding offering, "Yeah mine didn' take off with my couch. Kiddo though. Fixin that eventually." He shrugged hazarding to joust the lobster to keep it from climbing out of the sink.
At the question of making salt water sexy? Oh yeah there was a dance for that apparently. "Eeeeh you strike me as the sorta person tha' don' get by on convention. Know what to expect from that. Tha' ain' no fun. No good. Though," Mid-two step he turned nodding head head toward the hall, "Should see what survived." Good to know what's left in the apartment after all. "I mean if a raccoon moved in? Eh bring em over. We'll figure out how to put em to use."
"Boy or girl?" Clint asks in pure neutrality, not one of those people who freaks the fuck out over a trick having kids or the sentimental idiots who gushes over the prospect. Nope. This is easy conversation and investment on a human level while he watched Jp joust with the lobster. His arms folded loosely over his chest, hips leaned back to the the counter.
"Convention is so…conventional." Clint's dry reply is bemused, eyes glued to the cajun as he two steps around the kitchen, smiling with rapt bemusement by the time JP turns back to him. "Little light in your loafers, ain't ya?" He jokes, calling JP gay and quick on his feet. The archer watches keenly, waiting for a moment to step just a little too late. he looks down the hall where presumably the bathroom and bedroom lives. "A little raccoon and lobster etouffe?"
JP didn't miss a beat, "Lil girl. Five. Smart as hell too. Got her mama's brains." All parents say that about their kids though right? His focus, though was on investigating the fridge and cupboards. At the comment about his loafers he murmured, "Eeeeh ain' slowed you down none. You bringin' this 'trick' a lobster? I' take that up as compliment, mon ami." Hence the little Elvis ass dance. Sure he'll throw that back at the arrow slinger. Whatever he was JP seemed to have 0 worries or excuses about who he was which was a bold lifestyle choice in '65 to be certain. At the question of etouffe he held both hands in the air with a clap and spun and an elegant half turn on heels, "Thaaaaaat we could do too. Might be better than pit fightin em in the livin room." Ooooh options!
"To the victor goes the Tabasco sauce?"
"Cute," Clint responds automatically. Because of course every parent thinks their kid is the next einstein, but he doesn't have to be a dick about it. Remaining where he was while JP helped himself to anything and everything in the kitchen, he smiles slowly. "You kidding me? Man who knows how to dance is one of the sexier things in life." He can't help it. It's impossible to resist. JP claps and spins around on his heels and Clint shoves away from the counter, snagging an arm around the man's waist like a showman's hook, Clint drags JP into a quick jive-y two step around his kitchen. "A pit fight in the living room, huh? That's one I haven't done yet." Clint's an aggressive lead with a partner he knows can move. He doesn't throw a bunch of spins in there just yet, but it gives him an excuse to get his hands on JP's hips, his shoulder, hand and wrist.
JP lived the mantra of lead, follow, or get out of the way. He was just as inclined to come up with a crazy plan as follow one. The amusement was obvious falling into step. "Well you' luck, mon ami. All mah people know best is t' dance, fuck, fight, an' fish," He considered that as his body worked in easy rythem with the archer, "need a wipers fo' dance that starts with an F tho'"
JP turn ed in the arm, leaner than the leather jacket advertised. There was not a lick of shyness to him though rightly out wad a great way to get one lynched. All balls, no sense this one. "Well if we don't have a raccoon we could sub, but I'm petty sure you can take me. " which was proven, but he didn't seem hurt overt it, he respected the skills. He still wanted to know what the story was on that, but knowing the kinda guys he works with and himself? Well he had the decency not to ask because there'd be no actual answer forth coming. Instead he added glibly, "So yous were da' head of royal guard for King of Hawaii?" Of the Hawaii which was now a state since 59? "Las' 6 years yous must be bored as hell. Sorry for the loss, Hoss." Yeah he'd make up his own story for it. More fun that way anyways.
Clint was fleet on his feet, but it became clear to him quickly that JP could dance circles around him. He was outclassed in that arena, and for a man who obsessively practiced skills until he tricked people into thinking he had supernatural powers, to be bested was really, really…
…hot.
"Frolic. Makes you sound like an elf or something," Clint offers the word while he works to keep up with the cajun man. Fingers drag along his ribs, sweeping JP's lower back dangerously low, gripping his hips firmly, unnecessarily touching the nape of his neck rather than his shoulder half the time. Learning, gaining, gleaning information on the lean body hidden from him. Flashes of his stormy gaze prowl up and down JP's body, lacking discretion in private that he was either gleaning off his partner's boldness, or possibly reveling in someone as careless as he.
The insertion of his job makes Clint smile as he spins JP up in his arms, gripping him tight, hip to hip and his chest against the mutant's back for a brief jaunt. Barton's nose nudges the shell of JP's ear, rumbling in reply as he flirts and takes small advantages, "It was damn disappointing. I put in my application for Puerto Rico, but they don't even have a king. They got a governor or something, and his bodyguards are really pathetic." Spinning JP away again with a sly wink. "I thought about breaking into his place to prove it, but then he'd want me to fix the system and who wants all that extra work?"
JP laughed with an amused toothy grin, "Elf? Naaaah met one tho'. Crazy lil fucker. You'd dig em." Oh, Kai. There was a fancy Elf for ya. What the scrapper lacked in brawn he made up for in agility which Clint already knew when he the went round and round with him in the bar brawl.
The fingers across his back gained more purchase which seemed to amuse the hell out of the alley cat mechanic. The truth was he loved finding people that got it: no strings, no drama who ran off instinct and thrill. Sure there was the risk for people posing as being fair game, and that's how too many people like JP went missing; especially the people that got by full time hustling.
Clint? Didn't really strike him as the type and if he was? Well, he'd worry about that then.
Right now there was a very entertaining athletic fella letting musings and lies dance across his neck who knew how to dance, and knew how to flirt, and more so? Knew the cost of trade. There was a scraping of the lobster in the sink as it was trying to navigate the smooth metal surface. JP paid it no mind.
His head tilt up letting that brush to his ear go on as long as it wanted to. He spun out, as one does when they are cued to do so, and there was almost a slight flare like flamenco: Bold, and fluid but less flashy. This is what happens when your music grows up with soul in it instead of crooning. Granted he didn't get to follow often but there was more than amusement in the wink seeing where his dance partner was going. Hey bought a dance on his lobster and JP believed in the quality of the deal.
He gave the hand in his a pull, a welcome back, stepping in, perhaps closer than he needed to but personal space wasn't a concept he bought much into, sort of like his pants going back hip to hip with the archer, slinging his free arm up around Clint's neck. "So now you jes' go out trawlin for trouble an' lobsters? Well, at least you fin'in yourself the best of both."
Hey, if one of them was suddenly on the job with ulterior motives, neither of the other was paying it any mind right now. Why deny yourself the pleasure of the moment just because someone /might/ be trying to kill you? That would be a problem for Future-Clint.
Now-Clint was busy letting his fingers lick along JP's body as they danced, grinning with a bit of the devil in him, watching the cajun man peacocks a little bit with that flare. Fuck, that was sexy. Admiring and appreciating the moves, the expression JP puts into it until he came back with the tug of a hand. The former's king's guard draws back to him, hip to hip, leaving little to no space between them. Arm around JP's waist with a lazily elegant drape, hand following the curve of his tailbone, hovering just off his ass. No blunt games of grabass yet, instead, Clint wound the invisible strings of allure, suggestion and gravity around his fingers and pulled on them to plant the thoughts, unspoken, in JP's head.
"Most days, yeah. I mean, do what you love, right?" The roguish blond leans on his next words, smiling with all kinds of suggestion was his gaze sweeps JP's face, but seems to travel further than only that. "Trouble. I do love me some good trouble."
Tasting the words as finely as he says them, pulling JP into a quick spin and pull back against the taut bredth of the archer's chest, Clint took a quick, long step backward, pulling Jp along for the slow, dramatic hold as he pressed his hips against the cajun's and supported the wiry man. Letting him feel the strength in Clint's arms, his shoulders, his frame, his steadiness, like the earth itself holding JP up. He was showing off. Might not have the practiced skill in all dance as the thief does, so Clint played to his own strengths.
And cheated like a motherfucker.
Leaning forward in that dramatic pause, his smart mouth nearly brushed JP's neck, milking the move for all it was worth, breathing the other man in and exhaling warm against his skin as the archer drew their feet back together again.
"I think you're right, though. I should make sure the rest of the place isn't bare." By 'the rest' he means the bedroom, naturally. "You wanna provide some backup, Jean-Pierre? The raccoons in this neighborhood are vicious. I could use a rascal at my back."
JP dropped into step against Clint hips pressed to and moving with his, and maybe more. If he was honest (which surprisingly happened more than 33.8% of the time which is good for a Bonaventure!) he loved the seduction. That too was a game and Clint knew how to play that without boring platitudes and plants and shit. Fuck that!
Yes, Clint was cheating. JP considered this being resourceful but also? Well shit it was working just fine. The crazy Cajun grinned tongueing at his eyetooth thoughtfully. "What kinda person'I be if I let you have all the fun? Raccoon' fight like hell." Totally altruistic, and had nothing to do with his libido or sense of curiosity. Not at all. Noooo sir (Yes it did).
Turning with a clap and a snap of his fingers he popped open the drawer and the cupboard and got a sieve with a handle, and a spatula? And an oven mitt. Hey there could be a legit actual raccoon. With an upnod like the bayou bad-ass he was he signaled to Clint, "Onward we go." Crazy mother fucker.
Why seduce someone with flowers when you can seduce them with stolen lobsters? You can't eat roses. Well, you could, but it's not nearly as satisfying. Clint specialized in sharp shooting and seduction, unconventional as it may be.
Clint's fingers drag along JP's body, reluctantly letting him go to gear up, though it may be possible to feel the archer's stormy gaze while it traces the outline of JP's shoulders, along his back, then staring for a good long time at the man's ass. Just admiring the work. It's not until after he's done that Clint seems to even realize he's grabbed up kitchen 'weapons' to fend against a raccoon. Chuckling under his breath, Barton shook his head and reached over to grab a pair of tongs and a pot lid, sheerly for the ridiculousness of it all. A short 'high five' tap of tongs against JP's spatula, Clint winked and lead the way down the short wallway.
Past the bathroom, which gets a cursory glance inside. Flicking the lightswitch on with his potlid drawn up like a shield, there is no raccoon. no raccoon, but there also doesn't look like much else is in there either. A single toothbrush in a cup by the sink. A razor. A towel on the hook. Definitely a minimalist, here. It's winter, so the cockroaches aren't out in force yet, so nothing even scampers along the floor to get out of eyeline.
Clint shrugs and draws up beside his bedroom door, pressing his back against the doorframe and holding his shield tight as he pauses, dramatically, and gives JP a long look along with an array of hand signals. Half of which he makes up while the other half are legitimate training. All as if they were about to bust down the door to an enemy lab or something, Clint hovers his tongs hand over the doorknob while he waits for the 'go' signal from JP.
Could he feel it? Maybe, though history suggested he always walked like he owned the place. Now JP was a scrapper, he was lean, and muscled for agility, and what he lacked in brawn or common sense his ass and thighs seemed to make up for as they carried him away and back again. Running from the cops at high speeds makes for great quads, no lie.
JP was never in a swat unit or any organized affair like Clint so he replied how he knew and possibly suggested that Clint steal third or possibly hump a unicorn. Maybe both. Baseball games in New Orleans must be fantastic at this rate.. Taking a deep breath, crouched almost to one knee he held two fingers up and then pointed them at the door as IF the raccoon could understand language to plan accordingly. GO was the hand signal, and with that, and heedless of how close any furniture (if any was left) might be, did a tuck roll into the room.
Hey, that's better than the single-finger salute that Clint expected from JP in reply. Flashing a grin at JP, there's a wink and Barton flings open the door, allowing the mutant to tuck and roll into the room like a madman.
UNDER ATTACK!
It wasn't a raccoon, but I shit you not, a pigeon startles and takes flight while the coop is broken into by the two men. Wings flapping, the bird coos and clucks indignantly as it lands next to JP and struts away with all the arrogance of a city bird.
And WHY is there a bird in here?
The baseball next to a pile of Clint's clothes and the broken bedroom window would be the culprit. Also, it was freezing in the room, and practically barren. Barton dropped his shield and tongs to his sides with a swing of those impressive arms. "Aw, window…no."
From the imprint in the carpet, there was a missing dresser and one bedside table (which he will say is why a bunch of his clothes are on the floor). The bed is still there! But it's been stripped of sheets and pillowcases. A single bedside table remains with a lamp and alarm clock on it. But there's bird shit on the lamp now where the pigeon and his palls have been perching, as well as on the bare curtain rods hanging over the windows.
Clint groaned and rubbed his knuckles into his brow, grumbling to himself, disheartened. "Damnit, Bob…" the archer sighs in a huff, then looks down at the bird while it struts around.
The crazy Cajun stopped the dive roll on one knee. It was excellent form, not at all for effectiveness but it looked cool and was that not more important? Hero landing, spatula pulled wide to the side ready to thwap-thwap-thwap at any offenders. The cold was notable. Yeah this guy was… having a bad day.
JP didn't need to actually own anything to know this was a shit situation.
The pigeon coooooed in trills which JP took as a «I was sleeping, asshole». The spatula swished at the birb menacingly. Shoo! The bird flapped in a flurry and perched on the spatula as if giving JP a big middle talon. The Mutant flailed it trying to get the spatula in a string of pidgin Cajun French that includes something about "Your mother is an omelette."
Critically he looked around to assess the break in. Huh. Mercifully he stayed quiet and let Clint have his moment. Consolation from Jean-Pierre came as a drawling observation shaking his head and noticing the baseball. Looking up those dark brown eyes blinked and squint with the unspoken sympathy of That's rough, buddy but offered, "This Bob's terrible at sports man. The window's outside 'the foul line and yous supposed to hit the ball and keep tha' bat, no' the other way aroun', mon ami."
Well, it's Tuesday! Is sort of Clint's attitude after a moment of indulgent 'well this sucks'. At least he's resilient, that can absolutely be said of the younger Barton boy. He barks up a laugh when the bird lands on the edge of JP's spatula. "He's really scared of you huh, pal?" A grin splits Clint's face while he walks around to the baseball and eyes the broken window. 'Holstering' his tongs by sliding one flared tip into his waistband like a gun, he picks the ball up and tosses it casually a few times while striding casually to the window, looking down to the street below. "Nice tuck and roll, by the way. Scared the shit literally right outta him."
"Yeah, kids, right? They always play down there in the street, looks like someone hit way foul. They didn't even sign it for me," Barton smiles crookedly at JP and shrugs. "And Bob's my ex. Still terrible at sports, though. You had that right. Hey, left me the bed. That's a helluva thing! Must've had too many great memories to take." Booyah. "The sheets were pure spite, though." The blond rolls his eyes in bemusement and walks out of the room with baseball in hand. "Think you can get that flying rat outta here, or you think there's enough meat on his bones?" Was he kidding?
Jean-Pierre cracked an easy grin on his swarthy face and shrugged, "Merci, merci. Comes from a distinguished life a' dodgin cops an' robbers alike." One more fwip of the spatula and that pigeon was perched. "Yeaaaah I don' think it is." The question posed to him was one of query and a hrmmmm. Now putting a spatula in one's teeth with a bird on it while wearing oven mitts was not considered a wise move. It was also a great way to lose an eye.
From around the spatula came a 'tchtchtch' sound like he was talking to the bird. Kneeling on the one oven mitt to take it off so he could remove the other was its own stunt up there with getting dressed under the shirt you were already wearing. Hands free he slowly lifted his hands to approach the bird, and with some ruffling and a half flap he pinned it's wings to the bird's fat body.
The pigeon retaliated by pecking him three times in the forehead where it was captive flailing it's feet. "Of 'funnoffa biff!" It was hard to swear around a spatula in one's teeth, French or no. They were good at cooking but not necessarily at fending for themselves with utensils in their face. This was a new skillset. Holding the bird away his head tilted and he leaned back for Clint to liberate him of the utensil, "Awww summona bitch man. Yeaaaah I'd say this Bob screwed ya one las' time with the leavin of the ugly lamp. But hey, they' lose, non?"
Clint comes back after the Battle of the Birb is mostly done, with limited casualties on either side. A plastic trash bag and roll of duct tape in one hand, he chuckles and takes the spatula out of JP's mouth and quickly uses it to smack the Cajun's ass with a neat fwip.
"En guard," jokingly chiding, the spatula stuck neatly into a belt loop as he sets the roll of tape down and tears the trash bag along two sides. "Eh, honestly I probably deserved it. She's a good woman. Don't know for the hell of me what took her so long to realize she's got shit taste in men." Clint smirks at JP and shrugs, eyeing the bird. "I'm gonna seal up this window, here. You wanna toss him outta here?"
JP laughed off getting swatted with the spatula, "Haaa, careful, I bite." There was a wry grin with a challenge in it that was short lived as the bird tried to peck at him again. "Man now I kinda wan' eattum." He thought about it and looked around, "Hmmm, Neither one of us much a houngan. Prolly don' wanna pluck the lil bastard here. Maybe order a pie, put tha' lobster on that. No' much to work with…yet." That said he sashayed his happy ass over to the window and tossed the bird through the hole with more of a shove into the air than a release.
Brushing his hands off the Cajun nodded. "Grab tape. I'll grab a bag." Garbage bags were likely left. "C'mon, I cook you dinner outta somethin and we'll have us a toast thankin all the people 'have good taste in men." He was and ass, but he was a rather handy one and not without a sense of solidarity for such a situation.
"I'm counting on it," Clint replies to the sass and eyes the bird. "Yeah, birds are a mess to prep. All those damn feathers get everywhere, and the fuzz. Lot of work for little payout, though he is a fat little son of a bitch." The archer remarks appreciatively. He waits for the bird to be airborn again, then smirks at JP as he stupidly holds out in hand that garbage bag and the roll of duct tape he carried in with him. "You mean like these?" An appreciative quirk of an eyebrow, Barton chuckles. "Great minds, JP." Appreciative that not only did the guy NOT run off when he saw the apartment, but now helped him rid it of vermin and was now in the process of bagging his broken window.
Nice.
Clint held the split bag up, tossing the roll of tape over to JP. "Are there people left who have good taste in men? Maybe I just don't meet them because I'm me."
JP arched both eyebrows with a slight side nod of his head with that expression that read: Noted for later. Reaching out with deft fingers that were fluent with locks and rude gestures alike to pluck the tape out of the air. Examining it he said, "Eeeh I'm no' really up fo' bein tapped to no chair without a safe word or a jewel heist." Oh he did his best to keep a thoughtful expression before following up, "I mean' a bag t'cover the window up in. Keepin ' th' birds and th' snow out. We can put the glass in the bag tho but you wanna get brown paper or somethin or it go right on through."
Looking around at the wreckage the Cajun squint. "Maaaaybe she do? Maybe if she didn' give no figs, this Bob wouldn' be goin through the extra effort t'say 'Fuqua, Chere'" He shrugged and offered, "Been 'dere. "
Carefully rough fingers went about picking up the glass in hand. It was a thoughtful musing for a pigeon assault but he voiced, ""maybe is the definition of 'good' tha's messed up, not that men in ques'ion. I don' wanna be no suit tellin a lady how to buy no car space to some salary. Once Mozelle love me for tha' too, but… Things change I guess." He shrugged and paused, squint, reached into the pile flipping a quarter found to Clint.
The expression is almost mirrored back to JP when he asks for a bag to cover the window up. Clint stands there, dumbly, with a bag he split open, and stares at JP. "I…don't know how to make this any more clear." Squinting his confusion at the cajun. "Is there a language barrier here? Should I try it in French?" The archer tilts his head oddly, then clears his throat and tries, indeed, in french. "I grabbed a bag and split it open, specifically to patch up the window. Which is why I said 'I'm gonna seal up this window' and tore it up the sides. It sure as hell isn't holding anything any more." One side of his mouth lifts in a crooked smile over the other. "That any clearer there?"
Clint chuckles and shakes his head, reaching over to take the duct tape back from JP and meanders to the window to stretch the plastic over it, taping it around the perimeter to form a seal.
"You got a point—ooh, quarter," Clint snatches it out of the air and sticks it in his pocket while he works on sealing up a side of the plastic. "Bob's real good at going the extra mile to get her point across. Someone always gets hurt, yaknow? I can't hold it against her for trying to get back." There's a vague smile, continuously glancing back and forth between his task and at JP. "She your baby girl's momma? Things do change, especially when you put kids in the mix, man. Everything's gotta change. Big picture, I want the whole nine, you know? A mess of kids and everything, and I thought Bob'd be the one that could get through it with me. But like you said, she used to love me for reasons that I guess just didn't suit her any more." The quippy archer smiles faintly at JP and slaps another piece of tape across a corner for reinforcement's sake. "Just gonna keep my eyes open for possibilities while I'm out stealing lobsters."
JP blinked and shook his head and said without missing a beat with a shake of his head, "Truthfully? It's fun just to make you keep talkin." He winked in a way that it may or may or may not have been teh truth at all. Clint had the window and that left JP to listen and put the glass… somewhere.
At the question to him he shrugged a shoulder. "Yeah, Mozelle's her mama. We were on an off growin up. She come from a good family tho' ya know?" He let Clint fill the rest in for himself. "Her family never care for me much buuuuut" He shrugged and finished in his French , «We'd talk though. She was different. Wanted to see things, go places, feel alive? She never saw me as like … bad for bein who I was. Didn't care I was poor or a mutant. Never saw me as a criminal. » He stood up witht he pieces walking them over to the one trashcan left in the bathroom giving that some objective thought. "Think I kinda mess' up an change' her min' on that one tho." He took a deep breath sorting that one out and added ruefully with a squint, «She had the kid while I was away for a while-a while for somethin stupid. Dunno she really forgave me that one and I can't blame her a bit.. Soooo ya know iI feel ya kno that one man. She told me, Jean-PIerre, you can mess up with a lot of things in life, but this wasn't one of em.»
A grin widened on his face and he shook his head, "Merde, tha' still floors me. I didn't expect you t' do that. Made my damn week."
Clint shoots a grin as charming as every cardinal sin and warm as the sun on a clear day when JP says it's fun to make him keep talking. His turn to give a 'noted' sort of glance up and down the Cajun. "Today's your lucky day; talkin', I can do."
The background on JP's failed relationship given in exchanged for Clint's most recent one that he was stuck in the midst of. He should probably be embarrassed. He brought a man home to cook a lobster up and maybe some fun, and instead there was a very distinct picture of the ruination of his lovelife and general scattered living style. But he wasn't. Clint didnt seem the least bit embarrassed over the vulnerability of the moment. He wore his scars plainly and accepted them as the moment's truth. Everyone has bullshit. If someone got turned off because they had to spend ten minutes picking up glass? Then fuck 'em. Clint would be okay without them, and they'd be just fine without him.
But JP stayed. And managed one more to make the moment entertaining as Clint followed him to the small bathroom, a spatula dangling from his beltloop and a pair of tongs half in his waistband. The kitchen crusader, here. Listening as carefully as he could, following from room to room, Barton stayed present, twisting the roll of tape in hand idly before putting it down on the bathroom sink.